verbed to plunk at some old beer cans and pre-riddled milk cartons. Most of the targets we found had been used more than once by our predecessors, and although not as glamorous as the city targets of glass, were just fine for a nine-year-old on his first safari.We left the riverbed, and when we arrived home, we found my parents, along with the surrounding neighbors, lying in wait for us. Their faces were as long as the walkway leading to the porch where they huddled in cross-armed formation. I knew the cat was out of the bag. Boy, was my brother ever going to get it!While trying to hold back a humongous laugh at my brother's stupidity, I began to tell these folks how foolish Tom had been in his choice of targets. Before I could get a word out, my father snarled, "Give me that damn gun. You're grounded, buster!" What ensued was a cacophony of pointing fingers, frenzied arm waving, and shrill screams, as the neighbors recounted their various damages to my brother. As the dust cleared, my brother said in a matter-of-fact kind of way, "So that's what the little fart was doing while I was on the phone yesterday." Having an idea of what was about to happen, I clenched my prized B B gun close to my heart. Something told me this would be our last embrace. "I guess this is my fault," Tom said solemnly. My spirits rose high. There really was a God. Tom's going to tell the truth. All Tom said was "He's much too young for a B B gun. I never should have bought him one. I'll take it back home with me tomorrow."I started to lay out my defense, but my Pop said, "Not a word, buster. Get to your room and stay there." From my room I could hear my brother telling the lynch mob how surprised he was at my choice of targets. I was finished. I could only grieve my loss and cry. Hard.At suppertime I was summoned from my room by my Pop. I expected the worst, and it had happened. They all believed Tom, who said he had no idea I had shot a...
