By B. P. Gibson
We lived in a modest, well-kept home. Both front and back yards were garnished with flowers Mother cultivated, complimenting the lush, green, well-manicured lawn Dad tended. The house was one of a small row of homes located on the north side of Broadway, just east of Alvernon in Tucson, Arizona. The year was 1953. Broadway was one lane east and one lane west with no medians, sidewalks, or curbs.
The perpetrator entered our property unannounced and uninvited and stated matter-of-factly, “I am going to shoot you!” I turned around to see him only feet away with the long barrow of his gun aimed directly at me. I was five years old. He was six, but the gun was real and loaded.
Moments earlier, I was in my backyard when I heard a child playing next door. I didn’t know someone around my age lived there. I dragged a lawn chair to the wall that separated our yards, climbed up, and peeked over the wall.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I have a gun,” the boy said, “and I’m going to shoot you. My gun is a real gun, and I’m going to shoot you.” He cocked the gun open and loaded his bb gun in front of me to prove that it was indeed a real gun. I decided I did not want to play with that boy. I climbed off the lawn chair and continued playing in my backyard until moments later when I heard his voice behind me, threatening me. When I turned to see his gun pointed at me, I was petrified. I wanted to run inside, but he was standing between me and the back door of our house. I ran. I spotted a toy wooden rolling pin on the ground. It was about six to eight inches long, proportionate to a child’s set of teacups. While running, I swooped up that toy wooden rolling pin, and without stopping to look, much less aim, I tossed that rolling pin over my head and behind me as I ran. Suddenly, the boy started screaming and bawling his head off.
“You hit me! You hurt me! That hurt!” I turned to look and saw that as sure as David’s stone hit Goliath, that toy rolling pin hit that boy smack dab in the middle of his forehead, where a swollen red mark appeared! I also saw that his gun was at his side and no longer aimed at me. I took advantage of the moment and darted into the house.
Once inside, I felt safe. I didn’t go to my parents. They seemed inept at protecting me, so there seemed no need to tell them what happened. That evening, they called me into their bedroom and scolded me, saying the lady next door told them I threw a toy at her son and hurt him. They admonished me to never throw toys at other children. Then, I told them what happened. It was the only time in my life I ever saw my parents speechless, but it was not the first nor the last time my life was in peril.