Growing up in the open farmlands and scrub thickets of North Florida, there was always an adventure to be had. My connection with the land and my understanding at a young age that it provided all we needed to survive, by way of food my family grew on it was one in the same… This open land also gave us what we needed as kids for entertainment, by way of letting us run free on its landscape and providing plenty of material for some good old homegrown fun.
From deep in my mind some of my first memories were of making bows from Smooth Barked Mimosa Trees. Actually, everything was made from these trees growing up. Bows, arrows, spears, lean-tos; you name it we made it from these trees. Our arrow tips were pieces of broken glass or broken flit from plow-points hitting large rocks while ripping furrows for planted pines in neighboring fields.
We became expert shots with our bows. Placing our feathered arrows precisely where we wanted them to go. So much so, that in complete faith my friend and I would stand across from one another, legs spread apart, and shoot arrows between each others ankles. Placing these razor sharp projectiles in the sand between our feet. We had complete trust in our skills but my mother, ( The Penguin ) not so much. One day about the time I let an arrow fly I heard her becoming momentarily unglued, “What are you doing darn it all?” She shouted in a furious voice. Of course I would have to be the one shooting when she walked out the back door of our home. I turned my head slowly to see her down turned lips and squinted eyes staring right through me. “I think it’s time for Brett to go home.” She said pointing toward the front gate…
Sometimes I was lucky with mishaps and sharp objects gone astray, and sometimes I was not. As I said, as kids we made all kinds of stuff to keep us entertained. I preferred bows to make and use, but I never passed up an opportunity to make a good spear if I ran across the right material. Throwing hatchets and knives were another great past time in my youth.
One particular sheath knife that I had thrown 437563528349 times and rattled off its handle seemed to go perfectly hand and hand with an old broomstick lying around. Cutting a grove at the stick’s end, sliding it into place, then binding it with cord; I was ready to try out my new spear. Its eight inch blade glistened in the afternoon light. As I strolled around the backyard, I looked for a good target to try my new toy out on. Then I saw it with all of its glory… An old milk jug sitting on the ground. This would be perfect I thought! But I have to make it a little more of a challenge… I set it up on the branch of a large tree. Steeped back 25 feet or so, I took careful aim, and sent my spear flying… Oh the splendor of it all, flying through the air. So graceful it was until it missed its mark… Grazing the limb beside it… I watched in horror as it launched like a rocket into space… My face dropped as it started its decent toward my father’s work shed. Blam was the sound of the eight inch steel blade punching through its top… And there it was sticking strait up for all to see… I think for at least 30 seconds I watched the back door wide-eyed… For I knew my father and The Penguin with the rest of the family were eating dinner just inside that door… I excepted the wrath of my father holding his belt or The Penguin walking out with this flat board she enforced marshal law with… Perfectly painted across it’s top were the words “Heat For The Seat…” All of us kids I think still suffer from P T S D… Penguin Traumatic Stress Disorder… Her and that damn paddle could make you feel like you had been wearing sandpaper underwear for a week…
Anyways… I realized no one had heard the spear hit the shed. I had to act quick… Going behind the shed I grabbed a ladder and quickly climbed to the roof. Pulling the spear from its top I saw the punched hole just waiting for the discovery of my father… What would be water proof and the same gray color as the shed’s metal exterior? You got it, duct tape was what I used, and it worked well… Until about twenty years latter when I was working in the shed with my father and he looked up and spotted the small patch… Looking back at me he said, “Boy…” then shook his head with a slight smile and walked away…
No comments:
Post a Comment