We moved to our farm in the Fall of 1960. I had been very excited about the move to the country. We had been living in a post WWII development where as a 5 year old I wasn’t quite going around the block by myself. I wasn’t allowed to cross the street by myself either, although on at least one occasion crossing with Jack presented its own peril.
The first time he took me across the street to his buddy Ricky Curtain’s house, I was the unwitting human ransom in a skeevy, ill-conceived plot to get his pop gun back. Ricky was a nice kid so I was more shocked than frightened about what was going down….That was until 2 other kids, Buster and Bowser arrived with Jack’s pop gun. They were brothers, 9 and 10 years old – almost grown-ups, and they were bad. They were both big with dirty blond hair, and Bowser had a black eye. Neither one had a last name. They lived 3 blocks away. I knew they were bad because I had seen them trying to set a ping pong ball on fire on our sidewalk outside of our house. As someone who was confined to a pretty “short leash” due to my age, I was very territorial about the areas to which I had unfettered access. When I saw them playing with matches I rushed over from our sand box and told them that they were going to catch on fire. They responded by giving me the stink eye and telling me to scram. I did scram but not before I warned them one more time that they would likely burst into flames.
When used as designed, a pop gun was a harmless toy gun that made an annoying loud bang when fired. It appealed to boys like my brother who were too young for a bb gun. However, when the barrel was cleverly packed with mud and pebbles it made a loud bang and shot mud and pebbles, which of course lead to numerous wounds and eye injuries across America. This creative use limited its longevity on the toy market, depriving future generations of children, resourceful ways to injure each other.
I was well aware that catching on fire was one of the 3 most common injuries to children. The other two of course were cracking your head open and getting an eye poked out. Cracking your head open was a common injury that frequently occurred during any unsanctioned activity that could result in a spill, like jumping on a bed.
Conversely, playing with sticks or anything sharper than a tennis ball (or a pop gun) often resulted in the loss of an eye.
We were warned so much about playing with matches that I was under the impression that children were inherently flammable. Additionally, one of the laws of nature seemed to be that someone who was not allowed to play with matches was far more likely to burst into flames than someone who was allowed to have matches. I did not know that there was a name for what happened when a child got too close to matches but I learned a few years later that it was referred to as spontaneous combustion.
When I saw Buster and Bowser at the Curtain’s I knew that my luck had run out. They gave Jack his gun and told him to scram. He looked very apologetically at me and left to go home to dinner. I got up to follow when Buster told me to sit down and watch TV. I started scoping out the room looking for an escape route when I realized that I was stuck because I couldn’t cross the street even if I did sneak out.
I began to have a greater appreciation for parental supervision, which was conspicuous by its absence at this moment. Mrs. Curtain was a nice lady; where the heck was she? I calmly sat hostage on the Curtain’s couch, sitting between Buster and Bowser with the black eye. Ricky turned the TV to the Early Show because it was “Tarzan the Ape Man” week. This wasn’t so bad because I would have been watching it at home before dinner. It was just a matter of time before my Dad would come rescue me the way Tarzan was always saving his son “Boy”... but what if they hadn’t missed me at dinner? I glanced over at Buster who had pulled out a jack knife from one pocket and a small box of wooden matches from the other. He opened the knife and started cutting the little red heads off the matches, making a not so neat little red pile in his lap.
This was great. Not only was I about to burst into flames but the flying knife resulting from the explosion would put out one of my eyes. I inched closer to Bowser. I thought of reminding Buster of the likelihood that he could burst into flames at any moment but thought better of it. I did point out that any slip of the knife would probably result in one of us getting an eye poked out. He remained unfazed. Then I asked him what he was going to do with the pile of match heads and he said he was building a bomb. In past crisis’s I had realized some success by threatening to hold my breath and following through. While I didn’t think that Buster or Bowser would be moved by my facial contortions and beet red face the way our babysitters had been, it was all I had. I took a very deep noisy breath, stuck an index finger in each ear for effect, ballooned my cheeks and began my last breath.
Buster and Bowser both looked my way with some concern. I don’t think they cared if I expired but Buster was concerned that his match heads might get blown all over the room when I exhaled. Just when I was about to have to start another last breath, Jack reappeared to save me. He announced that our parents said that I had to go home. Having worn them out with my questions, warnings, and annoyances, Buster and Bowser looked quite relieved and said “great, take her”. That was the anti-climactic end to the hostage situation. A “win win” for all, I jumped up and gladly went home with Jack. They were conceivably even more happy to have me leave.
