My younger brother is lucky to be alive.
Forty-five years ago, Santa Claus delivered me an archery set. The Big Chief brand had multicolored feathered arrows with dull metal tips, a stringed long bow with Native American symbols, and several paper targets. My brother and I could not wait to get outside and mimic our Dad who spent hours shooting his grownup arrows at a hay bale in the backyard. We painted our chests, made headdresses, carved spears, and chased each other around the yard while Dad practiced.
Obsessed with playing Cowboys and Indians, I preferred being a native, in part, because of the colorful dress and regalia worn by the different tribes. But, an iconic television commercial influenced me more than anything. By 1975, Americans were very familiar with the Crying Indian ad, where a lone Native American walked up to a freeway and had litter thrown at his feet. In that moment, the camera zoomed in to show a single tear roll down his cheek. That one ad changed me forever. From then on, I became anti-litter and pro-Native American.
Enamored with all things Indian, the Hicks boys wanted to be “authentic!” To be properly outfitted, the bow and arrows made us war (game) ready, and all I needed was a few practice shots before the great hunt began. This is where the fun went south fast. You see, I occasionally failed to use good judgment, and my poor brother just wanted to please me. So, I had the dumb idea to get my sibling to hold the target at 15 paces from me.
Dutifully, he did as instructed, and I pulled back on the bow string with the arrow shaking in all directions. I’m not sure I released or the string slipped, but the arrow zipped out and headed towards the target. Unfortunately, my aim was far from true. Like a guided and hexed missile, the arrow turned away from the target and lasered in on my brother’s head. Before I could holler, the projectile landed and exploded on a juvenile human skull. The target went one way, and my brother went down. Stunned, he made no sound, and recoiled with his hand pressed to his head. I ran to him, and when he removed his hand, blood gushed down his face. At that moment, I released a panicked scream that every parent dreads hearing.
Mom and Dad came running outside, in total disbelief, bewildered at the scene before them. Dad looked at me and sternly asked,“What happened?!” In response, I sheepishly said, “I missed the target.” My Mom then went into total maternal protective mode, simultaneously nursing one son’s injury and shielding the other from a father’s wrath. Blood spurting, Mom quickly made a head bandage and after much wiping, she announced that the wound missed an eye by about an inch. Meanwhile, I had fallen to a prone position, pounding the dirt, totally inconsolable. Crying, sobbing actually, I kept repeating, “I killed my brother!!” Little did I know, but my grief over the spectacle I witnessed saved me a spanking. The deep gash required stitches, and my emotional trauma kept me from touching a bow for twenty years.
In hindsight, I think Providence saved our family from a disabling injury or worse. I often wonder how we made it through our youth relatively unscathed. Boys and mischief follow each other, but I am pleased to say baby brother is still helping me along in life with one notable exception. He’s not holding the target!
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Clark Hicks is a lawyer who lives in Hattiesburg. His email is clark@hicksattorneys.com.
