We threw "spears" made from tall weed stems at each other, sometimes with heavy root clumps attached. Sometimes we got into rock fights or threw mud or dried mud clods at each other. Usually we missed. Usually.

My great-uncle was the cemetery sexton and he would dump a load of dirt in our driveway (which was gravel). We lived on "filled land" -- an old dump -- and spread the dirt in the garden. It was also a great thing to play in. I was digging in it with a spoon when my brother, who was digging with a shovel, sliced open my thumb. I still remember the blood mixing with the dirt. I didn't get "blood poisoning" or "lockjam" -- Mom washed it out, put mercuchrome on it (ouch!), and bandaged the wound. I have a small scar.

At 12, Mom sent us to learn target shooting at a local range run by the high school. We learned to respect firearms as tools, not as ends in themselves. We also learned to pull the bullets off .22 cartridges and replace it with wax, creating our own blanks. These we would fire at the bedroom door (when Mom wasn't home of course). The wax would splatter against the plywood door, we'd have made a noise, we'd scrape off the wax, and then one day Mom decided to paint the door. She said at supper that night, "I must have some bad paint; it doesn't stick in a lot of places on your door." We survived...barely...but the bolt from "Daddy's rifle" disappeared until the last of the three boys turned 18.