The last thing Mama told us before she left the house was �don�t leave the yard and don�t climb any trees.� I was eight, and Bill was going on eleven, but Mama had never left us alone before for more than a few minutes at a time. This, of all days, was to be different. Mama had gone to Mt. Pleasant to a funeral, and she�d agreed to let us stay at home since we were both old enough to look after ourselves. Normally, she would have taken us to Mamaw�s house, but Bill had assured her this time that he was totally responsible and would take good care of both of us.

The first hour or so passed without incident. I practiced my fast draw with the pistol and holster I�d gotten for Christmas, and Bill sat in the shade of the chinaberry tree with his radio in his lap. Bill loved listening to music almost as much as I enjoyed playing cowboys. Every now and then he�d jump out of his chair and begin to dance; sometimes, he would sing along.

We would probably have stayed right there in the backyard and out of harm�s way had Rocky not stopped by. Rocky was a year older than Bill, but he was a man of the world; in fact, he didn�t even go to school with the rest of us in Winfield though he lived only a block from us. For reasons I never fully understood, his parents drove the eight miles every day to Mt. Pleasant so he could attend a bigger school. Rocky said it had something to do with getting into college later. I was only in the third grade, so college was the least of my worries.

The thing that impressed me most about Rocky was that his folks had bought him a real gun for Christmas. It was a pellet gun, and once he pumped it sufficiently, he could hit a target a hundred yards away.

On this particular afternoon, he was on his way to target practice in the gully across the highway and stopped by to see if we�d like to go along. Of course, I wanted to go, but Bill reminded me about what Mama had said about our not leaving the yard.

�It�s only a hundred yards or so,� Rocky said. �Besides, we�ll be back long before your mama gets home.�

We couldn�t see what it would hurt, and Mama had probably meant for us not to wander off a mile or two from the house. When Rocky said he�d let us shoot his pellet gun, it was decided. Off we went.

After gathering a dozen or so tin cans and soda pop bottles from the gully, we set them up against the clay bank and prepared to shoot. I took my turn, and even Bill was a little excited about shooting when he saw how the cans leaped into the air when I hit them dead center. His turn came, but it was getting kind of late and he was afraid Mama would be coming home.

�I�ll climb the persimmon tree,� I told Bill. �That way, if Mama comes over the hill from Mt. Pleasant, I�ll see her and we can get home in plenty of time.�

He agreed, but as he pumped the pellet gun for his first shot he yelled, �Remember what Mama said about not climbing trees, so be careful.�

I found a limb where I could get a clear view of the highway and sat down. Realizing I could not clearly see Bill or where he was shooting, I leaned out to get a better view. The limb snapped and before I knew what was happening, I was heading headfirst for the ground, breaking limbs and scratching myself all the way down. I landed on my left arm, and then the rest of my body hit with a thump. I tried to call out to Bill, but I couldn�t utter a sound. Gasping for breath, I was afraid to look at my arm. In fact, I wasn�t even sure I still had an arm until the pain shot through it and I began to scream.

�Mama�s gonna kill us both!� Bill shrieked. �She may kill you, too, Rocky, so you better get on home. We won�t tell her we were with you.�

Rocky took his advice and hightailed it home.

�Can you tell if anything�s broken?� My arm was still bent underneath me, and when Bill helped me roll over, the pain was almost unbearable. �Oh s***!� Bill blurted out as he looked at my arm. �It�s broken for sure! We�ve gotta get you home. Can you walk?�

Despite the pain in my arm, I felt kind of sorry for him because he looked as though he was going to cry just any moment. �I think so, if you�ll help me,� I reassured him. I felt like the war-wounded I�d seen in the old World War II newspaper clippings as Bill half carried, half dragged me the hundred yards to the house.

Bill got me into the house and onto the sofa in the living room before he spoke again and then he had to stop and catch his breath. �Mama�s gonna kill us both,� he repeated several times.

�I�m pretty sure she�ll kill you,� I told him, �but surely she won�t kill me with a broken arm and all.� He finally managed a grin. �What�re we gonna tell Mama?� I asked.

Bill suddenly had a really serious look on his face, and he thought for a moment before he answered. �I think maybe this time we better tell her the truth,� he said hesitantly.

Mama didn�t kill either of us when she got home; in fact, she didn�t even ask right away what had happened. Instead, she called Uncle Albert, since Daddy was at work, and asked if he would go with her to the hospital in Mt. Pleasant, since that was the closest doctor. �His arm is broken,� she said, �but I think that�s the extent of his injuries.�

Bill still sat in the corner and didn�t say a word. Finally, his mouth screwed up as if he was about to cry, but he didn�t. �I�m sorry, Mama. It was all my fault,� he said very sadly then quickly got up and left the room. We could both hear him crying in the bathroom.

For eight weeks, I proudly wore my cast, my testimony to having survived the flight from the persimmon tree, and each time I told the story, the longer the fall became. Bill just grinned and let me tell it. I suspect that both of us learned several important lessons that afternoon, not the least of which were stay in the yard, don�t climb trees, and, when in doubt about a course of action, try telling the truth.

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