There are a few moments that stick out in my memory of childhood. Not surprisingly, the majority of those moments were related in one way or another to my mother and father. In the summer between the third and fourth grade, we were fortunate enough to move into a middle class Houston suburban neighborhood. Our home was, by today’s standards, modest. It was a three bedroom, one bath, one car garage and they paid about $12,500 for the place. It did; however, have a beautiful front yard and a large fenced back yard with thirteen tall pine trees, honeysuckle and a huge bamboo growth at the back corner of the fence. Looking back on those times now I realize, one of the best things about growing up in that area of Oak Forest was our home’s proximity to The Bayou and The Woods. One must remember that I was growing up in the age of the black and white western. My mother had taken my brother and I to see Zorro at the cinema early on and I had seen many episodes of the Rifleman and Lone Ranger at other kids’ homes. We did not actually get television until I was nearing the end of the forth grade. At the time I felt somewhat neglected. Now, I know the lack of TV was a blessing. Kids being what they are, bamboo being what it is and pine abounding, I had solicited my mother’s help on numerous occasions in the building of bows and arrows. My arrows never had fletching or points and my “bows” (such as they were) were strung with kite string. Needless to say, the results left much to be desired. Remember my saying “age of the western” and you can well imagine the conversations between my parents (in particular, my mother) and I regarding the probability of Santa Claus delivering a BB rifle on Christmases as another man’s fanciful dreams. We never even broached the subject of a 22! The Christmas of my fifth grade year brought a longish, skinny box under the tree that rattled strangely. On Christmas morning, upon opening that box, I beheld the most beautiful, laminated, dark brown 20 pound recurve bow and six, blond wooden arrows with target tips I had ever seen. I suspect it was a Ben Person or Ted Williams but for the life of me I can’t remember a brand name. The Sears catalog was a Big Deal in my house. Looking back on it now, I realize it was either my mother taking pity on the inept bower skills of a young man desperate for a weapon to take to “The Bayou” or relief on her part that I would at least no longer be pestering her about the fabrication of new armament. The only admonition I can remember regarding safety was something to the effect of “Don’t shoot the dog” and “Don’t shoot your brothers”. By now I had two brothers. I can’t really remember in what order those directives came. I can testify that I loved the dog. I was still unsure of the brother thing. But that is a story for another time. I shake my head in wonderment every time I think about my poor deluded parents actually believing my finely crafted implement of destruction and death was more “safe” than a BB gun. By this time I had plenty of experience with the normal kids’ assortment of air rifles and this bow could launch a projectile four times farther than any Daisy Red Rider. It was like comparing a Black Cat firecracker to an atom bomb! As in so many cases like this, the 20 pound draw was a little on the heavy side for me, a tall for my age but skinny kid (You would never guess that by looking at me now!) but I was able to achieve a decent level of proficiency practicing on dirt clods, pine cones, frogs and anything else that caught my fancy. Soda cans were a thing of the distant future. The “Bayou” I mentioned earlier was the Buffalo Bayou. It meandered through northwest Houston and eventually into the San Jacinto River. It was actually a small tributary and during most times averaged about twenty feet in width. If it got really dry for a few months, there were places to be forded and still have dry feet with the use of a handy downed tree. If we had heavy rains, the bayou would fill its banks and appear to be a lake a three quarters of a mile wide and five or six miles long in my area. The city had taken to mowing in and around the trees along the road that bordered the flood zone of the bayou and had succeeded in making a nice park-like environment easily accessible to the citizenry for picnicking. Further back, closer to the banks of the small river, the mowers were hesitant to go and the natural environment of the piney woods had been preserved. It was only a matter of 20 minutes walking from my house to step directly into THE WOODS and all of her unkempt mystery. One of the most satisfying parts of archery in those open spaces was what I referred to as “leg shooting”. This was when I would lie on my back, place the belly of the recurve on the soles of my feet and draw the arrow back to its full length and then launch it to see how far it would fly. This was the only way in which I could achieve full draw and man would that baby sail! Now, armed with my high-tech bow and ever present machete (Yep, never a word about that big blade either.) there was neither man nor beast safe while I prowled the thickets of the bayou. Time past and the bow was relegated to storage under my bed. I graduated to the Boy Scouts, time past, I grew in strength, Hunter safety courses and more freedom allowed for the other kids to carry their air guns camping. My parents were still vehemently against having a gun of any description in our house and then I remembered my bow. The intervening time had left two of my cherished arrows warped beyond use and I had already lost one. This left me with three shootable arrows. When I first showed up at a campout with my bow, there was some degree of derision from the air gun crowd, however, my increased strength now allowed for consistent full draw and with a little practice I could drill steel cans through both sides at distances that the air guns only left weak dents in. Seeing those cans fly put an abrupt end to the joking. Interestingly, no one ever asked to try my bow. I never did understand that. Apparently, I had taken the unofficial position of Resident Archer in our troop and no one wanted to debate or challenge the fact. First Kill At this point I must admit I had yet to actually kill anything of personal note. There were many times I had been able to come within easy shot of rabbits, armadillos and snakes but could never bring myself to loose. It just always seemed too easy. Besides, if I had killed anything it would have dictated cleaning and cooking the victim. It was on one cool, fall afternoon my camping compatriots were taking pot shots with their air rifles at a flock of ducks on a private lake I caved into peer pressure and launched an arrow into the flock resting on the water. There was no one more surprised than I to see one bird unable to take to the air after my shot. I and the godless heathens in my troop of bloodthirsties took to our canoes and pursued the hapless critter. I was kneeling in the bow of one canoe armed to the teeth while my savage companions paddled furiously to the scene. When we arrived at the likely site I found my arrow floating in the water. I stood, arrow nocked and ready to deal the coup de gras. The bird, a mud hen, surfaced directly in front of me, gulped air and dove before I realized why I could not at first find the bird. Moments later I heard a splash to my right rear, I wheeled around and snap shot, striking the bird squarely in the body, driving it under water with the shaft’s impact, killing it instantly. At once I was surprised with my success and with the suddenness of the event. The poor wretch floated to the surface immediately accompanied by the whoops and hollers of my band of hearties…arrgh! We recovered the beast and returned to shore with the arrow still impaling the duck as proof of death. You would have thought I had killed a marauding grizzly bear! The celebration went throughout the camp. Even the adult leaders seemed impressed. Of course, fair chase rules required cleaning and roasting of the game on an open spit to satisfy the complete ritual.
