Pointed reminder of close call
Before my sons practice archery in the back yard, they have to call and warn our neighbors. Heaven forbid they or their dogs be in their back yard should an errant ballista fly over the fence.
The bow the boys use is a compound bow, which threads the bowstring through pulleys to provide extra power while making it easier to draw back.
My bow as a boy, which I thought was pretty cool, was a hand-me-down from my oldest brother, Jack. It was green with a black grip. Moreover, it was a re-curve, meaning the tips curled forward to add resistance--translating into more power.
When I was a kid, I also practiced in the back yard, or better yet, my grandmother's farm in the Hill Country. She had 165 wide-open acres for a young boy to roam, seeking adventure and glory.
There were a few wooded areas where I could pretend to be Robin Hood, longbow and all, battling the Sheriff of Nottingham. Yet even with all that space, I still managed to scare the bejeezuz out of my Nana.
If you are old enough to remember a Hercules cartoon, then you'll recall it opened with a rousing song describing Herc's strength and bravery.
At the end of the title sequence, he mustered all his great strength while drawing his bow skyward, then shot an arrow into the sun.
I decided to switch from Robin Hood to Hercules one afternoon as I walked up the long hill from the bottomland. I sang the song as I drew back my bow as far as I could while raising it toward the late afternoon sun.
I let loose that arrow and marveled as it flew and flew and flew--uh, and flew as it began to arc and fall in the very direction of the mobile home in which we stayed.
There was a distinctive thud with a slight ping as the metal arrowhead pierced the aluminum siding, which was simultaneously followed by my grandmother's startled voice.
I ran the rest of the way up the hill and to the mobile home, virtually leaping over the barbed wire fence. Just to the side of the kitchen window, the shaft barely stuck out of the side of the mobile home, which meant most of it went inside.
Nana was rinsing dishes when she got the wild surprise of an arrow punching through the wall and an arrowhead stopping just inches from her head. She laughed it off later by saying she thought the Indians were attacking. And there was a patch the always reminded me of that error in judgment.
Knock-on-wood, we've been fortunate to date, although a shaft once tried to make its way between two fence boards.
Now and than we do cringe a bit when we hear a loud pop because an arrow misses the foam-filled box the boys use as their target and hits the fence. But they are actually very careful and follow range safety rules. Besides, they're ready to move onto something else after about a half-hour.
Still, occasionally I have to peek outside when I hear the 6-year old scream, "No prisoners!"
Copyright 2008 by David Falloure
