Mass Destruction of Weapons

Today is Patriot Day. A day of remembrance for those who were killed, those who tried to save them and the loved ones left behind on that terrible Tuesday morning eleven years ago. This Tuesday morning even feels like that one. But this blog isn't about Patriot Day.

It isn't even about Patriots' Day which occurs in April and commemorates the first battles of the American Revolutionary War at Lexington and Concord.

This is a blog about two young boys, years apart, and what happened to their first weapons. (Unless you count snow balls and corn cobs.)

Doug's dad, Kenny, must have been the one who gave him his first Daisy Red Ryder BB rifle. At least I don't remember buying it for him. Also, I had a thing about guns so I doubt I would have given my young son a gun.

Doug was almost six when Denny and I married. I know it wasn't easy being a step-dad, but I always felt that Denny was overly critical of my son which probably didn't help matters. We moved to an acreage when Doug was eight. He and his dog, Mimi, were reunited. (My sister had kept Mimi for us while we were living in cities.) Doug and Mimi had acres to explore and an old barn to play in with lots of free space to shoot his BB gun.
Then one day I came home from work and Doug was upset. Denny had taken his BB gun, broken it apart and thrown it away. I don't remember the reason - a BB shot through a window? Or too close to his little sister? Or some other infraction? At any rate, for Christmas that year, Denny felt badly enough about what he'd done that he bought Doug a new BB rifle. It helped some, but it wasn't the same as having the one his dad had given him.

My dad was also a stickler about rules. Although Mom was usually the disciplinarian, sometimes Dad's quick temper would flare and he would react.

One year for Christmas, my brother Ron received the bow and arrow set he wanted. Up until then we had to play with pretend bows and arrows when we played cowboys and Indians. (A stick with some string tied to both ends used to 'shoot' smaller sticks.)

We were probably about the ages, 8 and 5, as we were in this picture. The presents had been opened, Dad was reading the paper, waiting for Mom to make breakfast. Ronald needed something to shoot his arrows at. He told me to hold up a newspaper then he took the rubber suction cup off one of the arrows and shot it across the living room at the paper. Silly me, I had held the paper in front of myself rather than off to the side. The arrow went through the paper and hit me in the face - very near my eye. I screamed. Dad jumped up, yelled at Ron, grabbed the  bow and arrows...

broke them across his knee and tossed them into the wood and coal burning living room stove. He didn't even wait to see if I was really hurt or to let Ron plead his case. And one thing is for sure, he never had any remorse about destroying his son's toy and replacing it later as Denny had done.