A story from my childhood about the worst whooping of my life.
The Slingshot
I can remember finally being able to get a drink of water from the kitchen sink without having to use a chair to reach the faucet. I can remember the first time I was able to stay upright on a two-wheel bicycle without training wheels though it was a short ride that ended in the neighbor’s peony bushes. I can remember my first slingshot, and I can remember the worst whooping of my life.
I was a big fan of comic books when I was a kid, or “funny books” as we called them back then. Dennis the Menace was among my favorites. I was always envious of the way it seemed he could wander all over town with his friends, when I was trapped within the boundaries that my mother had laid out for me between Mrs. Bishops and Mrs. Doyle’s driveways. But what I was most envious of was the slingshot that he always carried in his back pocket. To have a slingshot like his was a distant dream of mine.
Where it came from I have no idea, nor did I know who’s it was. All I know is that I came across it one day on the counter. The weapon of my childhood dreams sat there before me and all I had to do was reach out and take it. But whose was it? How did it get here? I knew there was no way in the world my mother would buy me a sling shot, and I could only assume that it was something that my stepfather had picked up somewhere. He drove a milk truck and it seemed he was always bringing stuff home, that had to be the answer. However I wasn’t really concerned with how it came to be, or who’s it was, as far as I was concerned it was mine.
I picked the slingshot up and looked it over, it was Beautiful! It was nothing like the homemade ones I had seen a few other kids have. This was a real slingshot that came from a store. The handle was made of blue plastic and there was a leather pouch in which to put my ammo. I jammed that thing into my back pocket and I started towards the front door. I strolled in front of my mother who was sitting in the living room, and I immediately heard her say, “Jackie!” She told me that there was a cardboard box in the garage, and that I could take it into the backyard and shoot at it, and nothing but it. I got the box and did as she said, and then I went to the driveway and selected some choice rocks to destroy the box with. Later on in the morning while playing with my friend I would make what would be one of the worst decisions of my life.
The neighborhood kids and I were gathered around my step dad’s milk truck that he parked in front of the house out on the road. I can’t remember what we were playing but I was pretty cocky and showing off my slingshot. I seems there were seven of us kids playing out there, two boys besides my self and 4 girls. I can’t remember any of their names except for my best friend Marsha who lived just across the street, but there was this pretty little blond haired girl dressed in what I think we called a sun suit. I don’t know why it came about but I remember getting angry, they used to tease me for being short and that may have been the case here. I walked from behind the truck and towards the house. On the other side of the truck I looked down and there was a rock. I don’t know what could have possessed me to do it, but I picked up the rock loaded the slingshot, walked back around the truck and fired aimlessly into the crowd.
By chance the stone hit the pretty little blond haired girl in the leg and she immediately started screaming. I remember her holding her little leg and blood started running down it. As neighbors ran out to tend to the little girl I remember getting scared and running around the truck towards the house only to meet my mother coming across the yard with a belt in her hand. She took me by the arm and started laying that belt across my butt. I can remember running in circles around her as if I could somehow out run the belt but it was useless. As I ran in circles she busted my butt for what seemed like forever all the way to the house and escorted me to bed where I would spend the rest of the day thinking of my foolish decision. I think what was almost as bad as the whooping was watching her walk into the kitchen from my room and dropping my slingshot into the garbage.
I think my embarrassment almost equaled the stinging of my butt, as many neighbor ladies came out when the little girl screamed and were there to witness my punishment. It would be talked about for many years among the kids and Marsha and I would recall it and laugh even into our high school days. Looking back I can see how well deserved that whooping was. That random shot could just as easily have put out an eye, or possibly even have killed that little girl if it had her right. That whooping was a lesson never to be forgotten and to this day I have never owned another slingshot.
Jack Roberts – October 30, 2003
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Reviewed by Tracey L. O' Very
1/24/2005
I really enjyed this story You remember alot of your childhood. Sling shots were a thing to have for sure. I was never any good at them thank good ness cuz I sure wouldn't want a whoopin' like you got. But glad you saw how dangerous they are. We don't see that then, they're just a toy.
Good story of your childhood with a Great message in there for the kids and adults that 'play', too.
Love Tracey
Reviewed by Susan Sparks
11/12/2003
Jack: I remember my last whooping too. I was 16. It was NOT a good thing to "sass" my aunt, who I called Honeymom. It's bad enough to get a whooping when you're 16-years-old, but what made it even worse is that she pulled down my pants and then proceeded to whoop my ass.
That was the last time I ever talked back to her. I didn't dare do it again. I really enjoyed reading this--I like to write short stories too about real-life events.
Reviewed by Kate Clifford
10/30/2003
Now this takes me by surprise. Well written story. You bring the reader into your life event and show them exactly why it happened.
A passionate and poignant memoir written by a woman whose life has been guided by the words: "I am here to learn how to love well." The book is a deep examination of relationships, family, motivation, and honoring of the Self.
TRUE STORY. Bella survived an abusive powerbroker father with organized crime ties, a drug-addicted mother and a physically/sexually abusive brother. Shocking & inspirational. When she couldn't cry, she tattooed a crying angel to cry for her.
