A winter story

“Shoot Some Targets”

Random thoughts in the few seconds we had remaining probably went something like this: "Just my dumb luck, Vern couldn't hit the silly target to save himself, and now he's going to plant one smack dab in the top of my head," or "I don't want to shoot targets nearly as much as I thought I did."

“THWAP,” the arrow sliced into the snow about 15 feet from Larry, who, though visibly shaken, took up the bow.

"Only three tries each, so most get a turn," Vern announced, clearly in control and calling the shots. Larry didn't do so well, perhaps rattled by recent events.

"Okay, who'll be next?" said Vern, readying an arrow.

"Wait," urged Larry, "let's borrow some wood from Guinn’s woodpile to hold on our heads." Larry was a wise young lad.

Jim and Gert Guinn’s property backed onto Russell's field less than 200 yards away. Over we tramped and, with a critical eye, rummaged through the stack of wood, carefully selecting just the right piece to, hopefully, provide the necessary buffer to an incoming arrow.

How strange we must have looked to a casual observer gazing out into the snowy field on that dull overcast afternoon. Six youngsters, standing ramrod straight, perfectly still, holding various-sized chunks of firewood on their heads.

Growing Up Lillooet is the ideal paperback companion full of short stories to jog your own memories. It feels like traveling with friends. Pick it up and put it down at your leisure.

The book is easy to pack. Take a few with you to gift to friends while you share smiles and warm conversations.

Traveling?

For Christmas 1955, Vern Tupper received a bow and arrow set, not a toy but a real deluxe target practice bow with weighted, blunt-headed arrows. None of us kids had ever seen anything like it. The set included several paper bull's-eye targets and the little leather ‘thingy’ you slip on the fingers which contact the drawstring. Also included was a leather snap-on lower arm protector to prevent skin burn when the tautly drawn string was released; at least that's what Vern said it was for.

Vern was the center of our collective admiration that Christmas, and when he announced he was going to "shoot some targets," we were delighted. No matter if there was a good 10 inches of snow on the ground, Vern was going to "shoot some targets." Clustered about him as if he were a modern day Robin Hood, our merry, excited little group of 11-and-12-year-olds accompanied him out into Russell's field through a courtesy-hole in the fence.

Vern was impressive, hitting the target on at least one occasion. Everyone wanted a try, but Vern at first, seemed oblivious to our pleas. Finally, he relented and commanded us to spread out. Not sure what was coming next, but keen to win favor, we did as we were told and scattered. When satisfied with our individual placement, Vern pointed an arrow skyward.

"Who's ever closest to the arrow when it lands gets to shoot at the target next," he shouted. He drew back the bowstring. “TWANG.”

Eerie silence, undoubtedly aided by the muffling properties of surrounding snow, enveloped our band of recently merry youngsters. A few put their hands over their heads while at least one scrunched his shoulders in an attempt to reduce his target profile.