My little sister and I got into a fight. We were in what we called The Playroom (a concrete floor addition to our old farmhouse that housed a pool table, the “fancy” record player cabinet, the sewing machine, a bar made of barrels, and the only closets for my parents’ clothes. We thought it was HUGE.) She grabbed the darts that were in the dartboard above the pool table and started chasing me. Suddenly I had this terrible pain in the heel. I stopped and looked down to see a red dart stuck in my foot. Probably realizing she wouldn’t be able to catch up with me, she had thrown a dart but never thinking it would hit me. We looked agog at each other like, “Oh shit! Now what?!”
My dad had a black and white bullwhip that he used when working cattle. He would leave it hanging in the milking barn. We milked about 25 to 40 cows twice a day, but only had four machines. That would give us a few minutes of down time so I would go outside with the whip and try to make it crack. I eventually learned how, but not before either snapping myself or one of my sisters who carelessly stepped within the circle of pain.