When my sister called tonight and said "...well, well, well, is anyone in the mood for a little Halloween trick or treat?" I felt a chill. And that is a chill we come upon each and every Halloween. We laugh at it now. But once it was a life changing event, the dumbest damn thing we had ever done with a firearm.
So here’s to dumb, I'd love to hear other confessions ...we can't be alone. What did you do, what price did you pay?
There were five of us (ages 6-12) and our bedrooms were at the far end of an old split style manor house, the type found on many a southern farm. Standing at the door to my older brother's room, looking directly down a hall and across a sitting room, was a matching door to my oldest sister's room. At the far end of her room was a large built in wardrobe case and that sucker had one big door that, when open, revealed an enormous mirror. Guessing a range of 80 to 100 feet, my brother produced his magic bullet.
We were all snickering. It had taken days to prep. In 7th Grade “homeroom” he had heard much of the glass and mirrors shattered by gunshots in TV westerns were fake. They had to break some for real, but many only had that look -- caused by clear wax bullets that would deliver a spider webbing on impact, the hot SIZZLING SEALING wax making it look cracked. And maybe just as exciting ...we’re talking snowflake quality here, for no two wax bullets will ever produce the exact same pattern don’t ya know? Really? Really.
He had removed a slug from a Remington .22 Short, the type used for matches, and pressed that into a solid warmed paraffin block used for canning. There was some discussion over how much powder to leave in but hey ...it's only a short, right? Right.
Ka-Blam! Zzzing! The shot was nasty loud with lots of smoke...then the weirdest damn thing, what looked like a black ball was GROWING across that mirror. Had the wax turned black? Excited discussions as we started to move when suddenly ...the sound of boots coming down stairs, and fast. We all knew that sound. My sister had said the house was empty. Turns out she meant our side (never trust a six year old) and the old man was on us. FRONT AND CENTER he yelled, then counted noses. He grabbed the little Stevens .22, stared at my brother and said: TELL ME. "Yes sir, wax bullet sir." The old dad nodded but showed no reaction. My grandfather appeared. He said the impact had popped a section of the mirror’s silver backing off, the hole still spreading. Not another word was spoken. They did not want words. They did not want explanations. Then we all sat for dinner like everything was normal? My older sister suddenly whispered HOW WAS YOUR DAY DEAR and I started to laugh when my brother hit me and the old man glared and not another word.
We survived that whole year, I remember counting the days to summer vacation. School ended on a Friday. At 0500 on Saturday when we were all sleeping soundly, the old dad yelled violently: FRONT AND CENTER AND I MEAN LIKE NOW! ...banging two old pots together until we were assembled in the sitting room. “Don’t you look at each other, you look at me,” he said. Then paced us off, each one, with this sinister little smile on his face and we knew this was going to be bad. His toneless stare caused the girls to cry, so his voice became almost comforting. "...well, well, well, is anyone in the mood for a little Halloween trick or treat?" he asked. We were given one hour to dress and pack for the weekend. “Don’t worry, the rest of your belongings will follow and arrive for you later.” Here was an American officer who believed in the collective punishment practiced by his enemies, and so he and my grandfather drove us north to a serious working ranch located in the wilderness in the middle of absolutely nowhere. “Where the hell are we?” was our constant question, and the man who greeted us was the answer, an old friend of the family we didn’t know, but who had served with father for six long years. We referred to him only by title: yes Sergeant Major, no Sergeant Major, right now Sergeant Major. That was from before dawn until after sunset and had us praying for a new school year ...a real vacation compared to endless hard labor. Late that August I found my older brother hiding in back of the bunk house. He’d been crying. He leaned on me as I put my arm around him. He said ...I wish he would just beat us. I said who? “Dad, why can’t he just beat us like a normal father?” We never did ask him.
It was a full year before we were trusted with a firearm again, but we had learned. My older sister who just read this said to add that our youngest sister was exempt, her punishment was missing us and only saying hello once per week by phone.
So here’s to dumb, I'd love to hear other confessions ...we can't be alone. What did you do, what price did you pay?
There were five of us (ages 6-12) and our bedrooms were at the far end of an old split style manor house, the type found on many a southern farm. Standing at the door to my older brother's room, looking directly down a hall and across a sitting room, was a matching door to my oldest sister's room. At the far end of her room was a large built in wardrobe case and that sucker had one big door that, when open, revealed an enormous mirror. Guessing a range of 80 to 100 feet, my brother produced his magic bullet.
We were all snickering. It had taken days to prep. In 7th Grade “homeroom” he had heard much of the glass and mirrors shattered by gunshots in TV westerns were fake. They had to break some for real, but many only had that look -- caused by clear wax bullets that would deliver a spider webbing on impact, the hot SIZZLING SEALING wax making it look cracked. And maybe just as exciting ...we’re talking snowflake quality here, for no two wax bullets will ever produce the exact same pattern don’t ya know? Really? Really.
He had removed a slug from a Remington .22 Short, the type used for matches, and pressed that into a solid warmed paraffin block used for canning. There was some discussion over how much powder to leave in but hey ...it's only a short, right? Right.
Ka-Blam! Zzzing! The shot was nasty loud with lots of smoke...then the weirdest damn thing, what looked like a black ball was GROWING across that mirror. Had the wax turned black? Excited discussions as we started to move when suddenly ...the sound of boots coming down stairs, and fast. We all knew that sound. My sister had said the house was empty. Turns out she meant our side (never trust a six year old) and the old man was on us. FRONT AND CENTER he yelled, then counted noses. He grabbed the little Stevens .22, stared at my brother and said: TELL ME. "Yes sir, wax bullet sir." The old dad nodded but showed no reaction. My grandfather appeared. He said the impact had popped a section of the mirror’s silver backing off, the hole still spreading. Not another word was spoken. They did not want words. They did not want explanations. Then we all sat for dinner like everything was normal? My older sister suddenly whispered HOW WAS YOUR DAY DEAR and I started to laugh when my brother hit me and the old man glared and not another word.
We survived that whole year, I remember counting the days to summer vacation. School ended on a Friday. At 0500 on Saturday when we were all sleeping soundly, the old dad yelled violently: FRONT AND CENTER AND I MEAN LIKE NOW! ...banging two old pots together until we were assembled in the sitting room. “Don’t you look at each other, you look at me,” he said. Then paced us off, each one, with this sinister little smile on his face and we knew this was going to be bad. His toneless stare caused the girls to cry, so his voice became almost comforting. "...well, well, well, is anyone in the mood for a little Halloween trick or treat?" he asked. We were given one hour to dress and pack for the weekend. “Don’t worry, the rest of your belongings will follow and arrive for you later.” Here was an American officer who believed in the collective punishment practiced by his enemies, and so he and my grandfather drove us north to a serious working ranch located in the wilderness in the middle of absolutely nowhere. “Where the hell are we?” was our constant question, and the man who greeted us was the answer, an old friend of the family we didn’t know, but who had served with father for six long years. We referred to him only by title: yes Sergeant Major, no Sergeant Major, right now Sergeant Major. That was from before dawn until after sunset and had us praying for a new school year ...a real vacation compared to endless hard labor. Late that August I found my older brother hiding in back of the bunk house. He’d been crying. He leaned on me as I put my arm around him. He said ...I wish he would just beat us. I said who? “Dad, why can’t he just beat us like a normal father?” We never did ask him.
It was a full year before we were trusted with a firearm again, but we had learned. My older sister who just read this said to add that our youngest sister was exempt, her punishment was missing us and only saying hello once per week by phone.
Thanks for sharing; sure glad others have such memories of their youth.
