BB Guns and Bumblebees

War games, stingers, and the day I thought I killed my brother.

The Honeysuckle Hideout

It wasn’t the stickiness of the honeysuckle bush that bothered me—it was the bumblebees. Fat, striped, and territorial, they buzzed like tiny security guards any time we got too close. Normally, we gave that bush a wide berth, especially after Dennis’ infamous “Cyclops Incident” at Uncle John’s cabin in Arkansas—but that’s a story for another day.

Today, I was brave. Or stupid. Probably both. Because that buzzing bush made the perfect hiding spot.

I baby-crawled backward under the fragrant overhang until only the tip of my BB gun stuck out. It was a dangerous perch, but I had a clear view of the yard and the enemy. As long as I stayed still and didn’t tick off the bees, I could stay hidden all day.

Battlefield Rules (Sort Of)

The war zone was clearly marked: Gladys Street to the west, Trails End to the east, D Street to the south, and E Street to the north. That patch of Pearl Street turf was ours to defend—and we did so with the fierce pride of kids who had just watched Combat! and The Rat Patrol back-to-back.

My brother Dennis and I led opposing teams of three: me, Marlon Alsbury, and David Creason were the Shirts; Dennis, Barry Stinson, and Randy Jackson were the Skins. You wanted to be a Shirt—it stung a little less.

Marlon was up in the cottonwood as our scout, David hid across the street, and I took the honeysuckle ambush point. When Marlon whistled, the game was on.

Tactical Chaos and One Perfect Shot

The Skins came in low, BB guns cocked, scanning for movement. Dennis hugged the house, laying down dramatic cover fire from behind the hose reel. Barry and Randy rolled into the yard like stunt doubles, darting for the shed in the back corner.

That’s when I took my shot.

Dennis was 30 yards away. The BB hit square between his shoulders. His head snapped back, feet came off the ground, and he dropped like a rock. His Daisy 880 clattered in the mud.

Then—silence.

I froze in horror.

Three Pumps, Not Four

We had rules. Maximum three pumps. Anything more, and you risked real injury. But I’d gone four that day. Just one extra. Who would know?

Well… Dennis would.

He didn’t move. Not a twitch. I stared from under the honeysuckle bush, heart pounding. Had I actually hurt him? Killed him?

Time slowed. A bee buzzed by. I barely breathed.

The Setup

Finally, I crawled out and sprinted toward him, mind racing, guilt rising. A small crowd had formed—Shirts and Skins united in ceasefire. I dropped my gun, knelt beside him, and whispered, “Bub, are you okay?”

BAM.

Dennis exploded off the ground like a demon jack-in-the-box. He hadn’t been unconscious—he’d been waiting.

Daisy’s Revenge

I ran. Fast as I could. But I was never fast.

I heard it behind me: One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I didn’t even make it 20 feet before Dennis returned fire.

Bullseye.

Even Grandad Ben’s Prince Albert tobacco wasn’t enough to take the sting out of that one.

The ceasefire was over. The war resumed—at least until supper.

Scars, Laughter, and Sinking Ground

Life at 511 North Pearl Street in the ’60s and ’70s was muddy, loud, and unforgettable. We grew up poor, barefoot, and full of imagination. BB gun battles were just another Tuesday. Sure, it stung sometimes—but I wouldn’t trade it.

Our games were rough, by today’s standards. But they forged friendships in sweat and scars. No one sued. No one tattled. We earned every welt with pride.

Picher was our battlefield, our jungle gym, our kingdom. And while the ground beneath us was already crumbling, we didn’t know—or care.

The chat piles watched. The mines shifted. But we just kept playing.

The Real Wounds

The BB scars faded.

But the real ones—the ones Picher gave us before we knew what was happening—those stuck around.

Collapsing mines. Contaminated soil. Families displaced. A town erased.

But in our memories, it still stands. A little rusted. A little bent. But still there.

Waiting.

Share Your Battle Scars

Ever catch a sibling with a BB? Or survive a backyard ambush? Share your best “almost got grounded for life” moment over at facebook.com/RealChatRat. Bonus points if bees or revenge shots were involved.