It was my 16th year of life. My brother Kenny was in college up at Tarleton, his second semester and had moved into an apartment, that had formerly been occupied by a cop he was told. The cop had left a night stick behind. Kenny was sure that I would need that club one day, so he brought it home to me. He always looked out for me like that. The wooden stick had been drilled through the core had a steel rod inserted. I kept it stuck between the seat and the console.
My means of transportation was a 64 Buick Rivera. It was a Saturday and we had been down around Jonestown building a road. Kenny never cared much for my driving so when we headed back to Smithwick that afternoon Kenny drove. He always drove fast, we all did in my family. Even our mother.
Just as we came past Lago Vista where there is a long curve,
the highway department had just started replacing all of the wooden bollard posts with reflectors that were common along roadways. They came up with what appeared to be flimsy little steel posts with the reflectors, like the ones that are still used today. Those spindly little posts just didn’t seem all that sturdy to the two of us. Thinking we would test out their strength and durability I told Kenny to hand me to night stick. I’m still not sure who we were trying to prove what to, but as were rounding the corner on the two lane road at 85 MPH, Kenny pulled close to the row of posts on my side. I leaned out and the stick made contact. The momentum that propelled that stick backwards was unbelievable. It hit my right arm, causing a one inch high bump to raise up along almost the entire length. The club then sailed back through the window and whacked Kenny on top of the right ear. It seemed like it bounced around forever, hitting me in the head and finally coming to rest in the backseat.
Dazed and addled, Kenny locked up the brakes and slide. Luckily there was a long level dirt area along right side of highway. We plowed up some ground before coming to a stop. Both doors flew open and we fell out kicking. Soon there was a line of cars stopped, wondering what had happened. I was hurting and Kenny with blood gushing from his ear was hurting too. After a bit we dusted off, climbed in, and headed for home.
Even with the steel core, the stick was still broken. So much for that experiment.
One thought on “The Flying Stick”
16 and maybe 18? I’d call that “age appropriate behavior.” Aren’ t we glad we survived it?
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