I remember when I was a kid growing up in Oregon how much I loved to play outside on the farm where we lived. [31334 Coburg Bottom Loop Road] Of course, I call it a farm, but it wasn't really a farm. I mean, we had a horse and a few sheep and a couple of goats, a handful of chickens and ducks (mallards) and even a pair of geese, but we didn't actually work the land we lived on. It was a 24 acre parcel in Coburg, Oregon (population: 650) and we lived on 4 acres and leased out the rest to real farmers who actually raised crops and harvested and stuff. We just kept the animals around because they were fun and kept the grass in the pasture down to a reasonable height.
Our property was bordered on two sides by roads. One was a typical country road, the other was a typical gravel farm road. It was the latter which was lined with blackberry vines all along the property we hadn't leased. The tangle of ever-growing thorns was the source of much joy and much pain for me over the years that we lived there. Of course, I loved the berries. Who doesn't? And my mother makes the greatest cobbler on God's green earth, but during the summer, when the vines would grow over our fence and threaten to engulf the driveway, it was my responsibility to chop them back. Sometimes I'd use 'nippers' and other times I'd just flail at them with a machete. Either way, I usually wound up with blisters and it seemed like they'd grow back every week. And when the berries were in season, it always took longer since I couldn't bring myself to waste such fruity goodness without at least trying to harvest as much as I could.
One summer my dad gave me a BB gun. Actually, I had about three or four BB guns, and I used them all. My dad, in fact, gave me my first BB gun when I was about 8. We hadn't move to the farm yet. We lived at 831 South 71st Street in Springfield, Oregon. It was a house my dad built. His dad was a farmer, he was a real estate developer, I'm a minister. So much for the whole 'family business' thing. Anyway, dad gave me this BB gun and about the only thing I remember was shooting at everything I could think of. The BBs came out of the barrel slow enough for me to track them with my eyes, so I was able to adjust my aim pretty quickly at a given target. Of course the only target I remember from that time was a giant rock that sat in the ditch on the opposite side of the street from us. And I probably wouldn't even remember that if it weren't for Danielle. My sister Danielle, decided that she wanted to play near the rock. I decided I didn't care where she played, I just wanted to hit the rock with a few BBs. Yeah, you guessed it, she got popped. No big deal. Its not as if I really hurt her, she just got whapped in the butt by a ricochete. No permanent damage, not even a band-aid worthy wound, but I still got in major trouble for it. That's all I remember about my first BB gun experience.
On the farm my aim got much better. I would set up cans and bottles and practice until I ran out of ammo. It was great fun. Eventually though, cans and bottles got to be a bit boring. After all, guns are for hunting, not target practice. So, I hunted. I hunted anything that would move. Of particular interest to me were the myriad varieties of songbirds and starlings that flocked to the trees and pasture around our house. Countless hours were spent stalking sparrows and finches and anything else with feathers that dared show itself on our property. Not that I was very successful, I wasn't, but it was the quintissential boyhood experience. Once I even clipped one in mid-air. I was stalking starlings in the pasture when my dad had the audacity to inform me that I'd never be successful because they would always see me coming and you can't shoot them in the air with a BB gun. Sure enough, the next flock that came over, I shot at-and hit-one of the birds. I know I hit it because if faltered for a second and dropped a feather. That was the only time I would ever hit a bird on the wing with a BB gun. Now shotguns are a different story...
There was a boy who lived across the street from us, a year younge than me, named Lee Winship. Lee drowned in a boating accident during his sophomore year in high school. I was deeply grieved by that since I had every opportunity to tell him about Jesus for several years, and I didn't do it. A lesson hard won, and a hard one to handle. Anyway, Lee and I were good friends, not the kind of intimate friends that everyone desires, but more like play mates. We goofed off together almost every day, even though we never really got along. It made sense to make peace instead of feuding with each other since there was no one else within half a mile to play with and Those kids (Troy and David Frost) hated both of us. Troy was a year older and just plain mean. David was my age and a total brainiac. Brilliant. He wanted to be a congressman one day. I wonder if he ever made it. He was a smart nerd. I was only a nerd, and he and his brother were pretty good at letting me know that. By the time we were all finished with high school, we all managed to get along, but in junior high and early in high school, we were mortal enemies. And since Lee was in the same boat, we were allies of necessity.
Of course, being boys, it was natural for Lee and I to discover war games; cowboys and indians, laser tag, and yes, BB gun wars. BB gun wars. Now THAT was great fun. Especially since we weren't truly friends. It felt good to shoot at one another and know that a hit would sting. So, every so often, we would hunt one another. And yes, it sometimes stung. But what a rush! Occassionally we would just set up a shooting gallery wherein we would take turns running back and forth across the open pasture while the other one shot at us. In hindsight, its one of things that make you just shake your head and say, "kids do the dumbest things." But if I was thirteen again, I can't say I wouldn't do it. It was just good clean fun. Working now with college students, I'm pretty sure if some of them read this, they'd be out doing the very same thing this weekend.
I think the scariest moment I ever had with a BB gun was also the finest. I was riding the bus to school one day, and as usual, the kids around me were being dirt bags, which is what their parents were training them for apparently, because they were really good at it. Anyway, this time they decided to pretend I wasn't there. They talked aroud me as if I didn't exist and even went so far as to plan a TP party for my house. BIG MISTAKE. I might have been the biggest nerd in the long sad history of nerds, but I wasn't about to let them come over and TP my house without a fight, and since they were arrogant enought to plan the raid right there in front of me, I decided to take action. So, on the night they were to come, at the appointed hour, I went outside with a couple of trusty BB guns and hid behind the lattice fence in our front yard. Within minutes I heard them coming, four or five of them. I could hear them talking and laughing as they came down the road toward me. It wasn't long before one of them lobbed a roll of toilet paper over the fence near my position. That was all I needed. I stood up pointed my most powerful BB gun at the one nearest to me and said in my best Arnold Shwartzenegger voice, "Bad move, Asshole!" I apologize for the language, but that's what I said. Then as he (his name was Jeff) turned around, I fired at him from only about 15 feet away. He screamed. He jumped. He ran like a jackrabbit down the road! His cronies followed at maximum speed. I fired a couple more rounds down the road for effect, but it was dark and they were running away from me.
It was my finest hour.
The next morning, however, Jeff didn't get on the bus to school with the restof his gang. I was immediately terrified. Had I killed him? Was he in the hospital missing an eye? Was he unconscious in the ditch on the other side of the road? All manner of evil thoughts assailed me, and all I could think of all day was that the police were going to come any minute, haul me out of class and arrest me. It was my worst hour.
I survived though, and the next day I caught up with Jeff in the caffeteria where he explained to me that I'd hit him in the thigh and it hurt like Hell, but that the reason he wasn't on the bus was that he'd had a funeral to attend for some distant relative. We actually got along rather well after that day. Once I stood up for myself, he and the rest of his gang treated me with a measure of respect I'd not previously known. I still wasn't exactly an equal, but I was pretty much left alone. It was my finest hour.
