The Bamboo Arrow
Could it be that I harbored murderous thoughts toward my baby brother? Little Ricky?
We're both adults now, a new generation has arrived, and "Little Ricky's" 18-year-old son still asks me about the time I shot his father in the face with an arrow. "Tell it," he'll say. "Tell about the time you almost killed Dad."
"Oh, Mike," I mutter, embarrassed by the topic itself, yet enamored by my own tale-telling skills -- even if they involve inter-familial attempted homicide.
"Okay, I'll tell it."
The property across the road was being subdivided, just like our property had been ten years earlier. Three new homes would soon pop up on old Mrs. Miles' backyard property -- which presently consisted of an old, sealed-up (some say haunted) guest cottage, a goldfish pond encircled by a thatch of bamboo, and a section of woods that served as our "wild-west" set when my brother and I were in our Cowboy and Indian mode.
This time, it was my turn to be the Indian. And I had fashioned a bow from a tree branch with a piece of string. For an arrow, I used a piece of bamboo, snapped off to a length of about two feet.
I told my brother to stand there. I wanted to test something on him. And then, for reasons I can't fathom today, I turned and fired my arrow at him. The jagged edge of the bamboo caught in his chin and the length of it hung there, off his face. He was wounded.
He wears the scar to this day.
Ricky grabbed the arrow with his right hand and pulled. It came out easy and there was very little blood, but I can still remember the tense, but brief, standoff -- before we took off across the road at warp speed. Each of us was hoping to be the first one to tell the story of exactly what had just transpired between us on old Mrs. Miles backyard property.
Even as I was running, though, I knew my defense was weak. My brother had the bloody arrow in his hand, and the circluar wound on his face, just southwest of his mouth. Clearly I needed a good attorney.
When we got home, however, my mother, with three children under 12 now, merely shrugged off what appeared to her to be a minor flesh wound. She didn't even harp on the newly-emerged homicidal tendencies of her oldest son.
I guess it's like Roseanne used to say in her act: "If the kids are still alive at 5 p.m., I've done my job."
But some stories inspire such incredulity, they are requested down through generations. Hopefully this one won't endure as long.
Rick (he asked that we stop calling him "Ricky" when he hit his teens) forgave me in time, my having just spent my Summer vacation with his family serving as testament to that fact.
But it is was what happened after I got back from vacation that made me realize how truly blessed I am to have a little brother who can take on the role of "big" brother when he needs to. I had to spend some "medical downtime" lately, and wouldn't you know "Little Ricky" dropped everything to come down here and be with me the entire time.
It really looks like he has forgotten all about that bamboo arrow thing. . .
We're both adults now, a new generation has arrived, and "Little Ricky's" 18-year-old son still asks me about the time I shot his father in the face with an arrow. "Tell it," he'll say. "Tell about the time you almost killed Dad."
"Oh, Mike," I mutter, embarrassed by the topic itself, yet enamored by my own tale-telling skills -- even if they involve inter-familial attempted homicide.
"Okay, I'll tell it."
The property across the road was being subdivided, just like our property had been ten years earlier. Three new homes would soon pop up on old Mrs. Miles' backyard property -- which presently consisted of an old, sealed-up (some say haunted) guest cottage, a goldfish pond encircled by a thatch of bamboo, and a section of woods that served as our "wild-west" set when my brother and I were in our Cowboy and Indian mode.
This time, it was my turn to be the Indian. And I had fashioned a bow from a tree branch with a piece of string. For an arrow, I used a piece of bamboo, snapped off to a length of about two feet.
I told my brother to stand there. I wanted to test something on him. And then, for reasons I can't fathom today, I turned and fired my arrow at him. The jagged edge of the bamboo caught in his chin and the length of it hung there, off his face. He was wounded.
He wears the scar to this day.
Ricky grabbed the arrow with his right hand and pulled. It came out easy and there was very little blood, but I can still remember the tense, but brief, standoff -- before we took off across the road at warp speed. Each of us was hoping to be the first one to tell the story of exactly what had just transpired between us on old Mrs. Miles backyard property.
Even as I was running, though, I knew my defense was weak. My brother had the bloody arrow in his hand, and the circluar wound on his face, just southwest of his mouth. Clearly I needed a good attorney.
When we got home, however, my mother, with three children under 12 now, merely shrugged off what appeared to her to be a minor flesh wound. She didn't even harp on the newly-emerged homicidal tendencies of her oldest son.
I guess it's like Roseanne used to say in her act: "If the kids are still alive at 5 p.m., I've done my job."
But some stories inspire such incredulity, they are requested down through generations. Hopefully this one won't endure as long.
Rick (he asked that we stop calling him "Ricky" when he hit his teens) forgave me in time, my having just spent my Summer vacation with his family serving as testament to that fact.
But it is was what happened after I got back from vacation that made me realize how truly blessed I am to have a little brother who can take on the role of "big" brother when he needs to. I had to spend some "medical downtime" lately, and wouldn't you know "Little Ricky" dropped everything to come down here and be with me the entire time.
It really looks like he has forgotten all about that bamboo arrow thing. . .
posted by Jon at 9:09 AM
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