The Deadly Weapon

A little over forty years have passed since the time I shot my brother, John, but that event is etched forever in my memory. I was just a kid, probably nine or ten years old at the time. I had been given a bow and arrow set for a birthday, or perhaps, as a Christmas gift. It was a simple wooden bow and the arrows were metal-tipped target arrows.

I can still remember stringing the bow using my legs to hold one end of the bow and bending the bow enough to slip the loop at the end of the string over the other end. It wasn’t hard to do if you knew the technique. And I was quite skilled at it.

I also remember the sensation of drawing an arrow along the bow and releasing it to fly, especially when the bow string contacted the tender meat of the inside of my forearm. My arm would become bright red after repeated twanging from the bow string. Still, I loved shooting arrows.

I especially liked shooting them nearly straight into the air. On more than one occasion I would lose sight of an arrow and hold my breath until I heard it come down, praying all the while that it wouldn’t come down on top of me! One reason I liked shooting arrows in the air was that there was less chance of losing an arrow that way. After all, though it was a simple bow, it could shoot an arrow quite a distance--at least as far as a boy my age was concerned. I only had two or three arrows and they would have been expensive to replace given my “small change” allowance.

The only thing I can remember trying to kill with my bow were prairie dogs--rabbit-sized rodents which were common enough creatures in Southwestern Colorado. I never did. I never even hit one. In fact, I was always thankful when I missed. Partly because I don’t think I really wanted to kill anything, and mostly because I was afraid I would lose my arrow if I hit one and they managed to retreat into their burrow, dragging my arrow with them.

I’m quite sure that I was well instructed in bow safety by my parents (though I don’t remember it), because I knew not to ever allow a person to be standing in front of me when I shot it, even if they weren’t in the particular direction that I was shooting. And I would only string the bow when I was using it and was well aware that it was an outside toy.

That brings us to that fateful day. My brother John and I were playing together as we always did, only this day we were playing with my “outside toy” inside. Cowboys and Indians was the game and as you have already figured out, I’m sure, I was the Indian.

My first error in judgment was that I had strung the bow inside the house. The second was that I had slipped the nock of an arrow unto the string. The third was that I had pointed the arrow at someone in front of me. The fourth was that I had pulled the arrow-loaded string back. And the fifth….

Accidents happen, but this was not an accident. No, I shot my brother on purpose.

Now, that being said, I never intended to kill him or even hurt him in any way for that matter. I only did it to bring a little realism to our game. I had only pulled the string back ever so slightly and didn’t halfway expect the arrow to reach him at all. It did, though.

It was a glancing blow to the chin. A slight cut. A little blood. And a healthy scream from John, probably more out of surprise than hurt. You’d have thought the arrow had gone completely through him to hear him carry on. I dropped the bow and immediately ran to his aid. (Well, actually, it was my intent to try to shut him up and give myself a chance to do some damage control before Mom and Dad arrived on the scene to investigate.) I pleaded with him not to cry, that it was just a scratch, that he was fine, but he wasn’t hearing any of it.

Dad rushed into the room and I just as quickly backed away. He took a look at the injury, looked around the room and easily surmised what had transpired. Next he looked at me, eye to eye, for several seconds, and without a saying a single word, he let me know how disappointed he was with me. He never spoke to me about it, he didn‘t have to. The magnitude of what I had done was crystal clear to me. The thoughts of how much worse my brother’s injury could have been flooded my mind and emotions.

I braced myself for punishment that never came. My father bent over picked up the bow and the arrows and placed them on his work bench. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t say that I couldn’t ever play with them again. He didn’t say I was on restrictions for a month. He didn’t spank me. Nothing.

But the bow and arrows sat there on his work bench for a very long time before I decided that it was okay to use them again. I didn’t ask permission. Somehow, there was an understanding that when I felt that I had punished myself enough, I would know that it would be acceptable to retake possession of them.

I am so thankful that the injuries as a result of my carelessness weren’t more life changing for my brother John--though John might tell you he has been “terribly emotionally scarred by the failed attempt on his life by his own brother.” But seriously, in many cases things like this turn out much worse.

I am also thankful for the restraint and wisdom that Dad showed. He knew that if he spoke to me that it would be in anger and he didn‘t want to lose control. He didn’t feel it was necessary to tell me every little thing I had done wrong that day, though I'm sure he had quite a list. He knew that I knew already, and left me to me to deal with it. And I did, and in doing so learned many lessons that I still carry with me to this day.