The Family Guns

When I turned 13 years old my Dad gave me a .22 caliber rifle. It was a beautiful gun, a Remington long rifle semi-automatic. I could load 15 cartridges into the magazine and plink away. My Dad used the occasion to teach me firearm safety and how to properly hold, aim and shoot a rifle. We went out shooting at tin cans and "rabbit hunting" in the rural desert areas east of LA several times, although I never saw, much less shot at, a rabbit. I felt like a "man" owning my own gun, and I eagerly assumed the responsibility of possessing and handling a firearm. It definitely was a milestone in my life.

There is a story behind every family gun in my cabinet. These stories turn the guns into talismans that connect me to the past in an important and satisfying way. I'm not sure I can describe that feeling adequately. However, perhaps by telling the stories I can keep the legacy of these family guns alive for my children to enjoy and experience.

I believe my Dad acquired the .22 Remington long rifle semi-automatic back before I was born. If I was around I was probably less than 3 or 4 years old. He owned and operated a Chevron Service Station on University avenue in San Diego at the time, and that's where it all started ...

Eli actually did shoot some
 ground squirrels

A customer came in with a flat on his car. The flat was unrepairable. The guy had no money and offered Dad the rifle for security to replace the tire. Dad agreed, and scrounged up the best used tire he had.  He carried new ones but he decided to go with a used one that had some life left in it.  He mounted it on the man's car, the rifle changed hands, and the guy drove off...never to return with payment. 

Now I could make up lots of reasons for this, but that is a lot of the charm to the story. Why didn't the guy come back? The gun was in excellent condition, and was worth far more than the used tire. My dad loved to tell this story, I think in part because he really was helping this guy out, albeit at little financial risk to himself,  and he really ended up smelling like a rose!

When my nephew Eli Wilbanks was 13, I passed this rifle and it's story on to him. Now it will be his turn to pass it along someday.

Two triggers for two barrels. The front
trigger fires the left barrel, the rear 
trigger the right.

So, when big brother Don turned 13 (two years before me) Dad gave him a Montgomery Wards Hercules double barreled 20 gage shotgun. This was the gun that Dad received from his Dad (Grandad Wilbanks) when he was 13. The Hercules was made by Iver Johnson for Montgomery Wards. Production probably started just before 1920 and went until the early 1940s. The "Hercules" name was dropped around 1936 and it became known as the Iver Johnson Hammerless.

I ended up in possession of this beauty when I started hunting Quail in 1976. I asked Don if I could use it since I didn't own a shotgun, and in return I refinished the wooden forearm and stock. The steel parts have not been retouched and have the original finish. As a boy, Dad used to hunt quail (bobwhite quail) with it in Oklahoma over his dog "Jack" (no relation to my van). I believe Jack was an English Pointer. And I heard some great stories about his steady point. This gun still belongs to my big brother Don, I am just keeping it safe and in the family for him.

I refinished the forearm and stock, and put on a new recoil pad.
 

I got the bug to be a Forester when I was living in LA and going to West LA College. It took a while, but six years and three colleges later I graduated from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo with a degree in Natural Resource Management and enough Forestry credits to qualify under the Civil Service rules as a "Forester". At my graduation in June of 1976, my parents presented me with another "Family Gun" in commemoration of my accomplishment.

It is a 30-30 Winchester Model 1894 lever action Rifle. The 30-30 is chambered in .30-30 Winchester Center Fire (.30 WCF) caliber. The name comes from the 30-caliber bullet and 30 grains of smokeless powder used in the original loading. Winchester first marketed the .30-30 caliber in 1895 as an option for its Model 1894 lever-action rifle, which was designed by John Browning and produced from 1894–2006 and again from 2011–present. 

The saddle ring is for securing the rifle in a saddle scabbard so it doesn't come out with hard riding, or if the horse decides to buck!

This particular gun was manufactured sometime during the 1920's according to the serial number. My dad's Uncle Moody (Granddad's baby brother) gave it to him in the early 1950's when he lived in San Diego. Uncle Moody was a surveyor for Cal Trans, then the California Department of Transportation.  He came across the gun while doing a survey, reportedly in an old gravel pit. It was in pretty bad shape, but Dad had it cleaned up and killed a deer with it. He actually had the head mounted, and it knocked around the house for years. 

He named the deer "Throckmorton".  I think he pretty much lost his appetite for deer hunting after that, but the gun stayed in the closet. I remember firing it as a kid out in the desert. It was incredibly loud, and kicked like a mule. I think it may have scared John so bad the he hid behind the truck!

Dad took the gun to a local gunsmith prior to my graduation and had him totally restore and re-blue the metal parts and mechanisms. He personally refinished the wooden stock and forearm then added a commemorative plaque on the stock.

I was flabbergasted when I saw the gun! It is a real beauty. Interesting features are the steel saddle ring (missing on some of the more recent guns), the steel butt plate (today they are usually rubber to absorb the kick from firing), and an inscription on the barrel that proclaims it is made of  "nickel steel especially for smokeless powder." Today "smokeless powder" is the norm and the old "black powder" is a rarity pretty much restricted to hobbyists.  I have never shot anything with the gun, but it is probably my most prized of all.

The A5 is also called a "Humpback"
because of the distinctive shape of
the receiver

I have posted several times about my Grandad Wilbanks. One of my guns is passed down from him through my Dad. It is a 16 gauge Browning Model A5    (Auto-5) automatic shotgun. It was manufactured in Belgium and was the first successful semi-automatic shotgun ever produced. When my Dad gave me this gun, it could not shoot ammunition made in the USA. It could only function properly with a slightly shorter European shell. I had a gunsmith correct this problem, and the gun shoots great now. It was nicknamed the "Sweet Sixteen" because it's light weight facilitates the swinging of the gun to follow and lead the target bird. It is said that "you can swing it like your high school sweet heart!" Grandad probably purchased the gun in the late 1930's. it's a fantastic upland game bird gun.

I also refinished the wood on this gun. Grandad used it for bobwhite quail in Oklahoma. He shortened the barrel to widen the shot pattern and down birds from close range (over a pointer).

I own another "Humpback" A5. It is a beautifully engraved 12 Gauge gun that my brother in-law Buck gave me. His Dad Fenn passed it down to him. Buck told me that his Dad got the gun in trade. It has a 30 inch barrel, full choke, and shoots 3 inch magnum shotgun shells. It is designed for bringing down large birds from long range, a perfect gun for ducks and geese. I have never shot the gun.

Grandpa Fenn's A5 is beautifully engraved

I remember one time Buck mistakenly grabbed this gun instead of the regular A5 with a shorter barrel and more open choke. We were hunting Chukar partridge, basically a large quail, out in Nevada. He was wondering why his gun felt so heavy as we hiked up the steep rocky slopes to the ridges where the Chukar hang out. A bunch got up and Buck nailed two birds out of the group (a "double"). Both birds just evaporated in a cloud of feathers! He looked more closely at the gun and realized his mistake. After that he had to let the birds get further out before he shot so he would have something left of them to eat.

There should be no mistaking that 30 inch barrel!

Not long after Kim and I were married, I really got into hunting Chukar with my in-laws. Fenn was getting older, into his mid sixties, and he and Buck took me under their wing and taught me how to hunt these very wily birds. I think it was the Christmas after my first hunt with a borrowed gun that Fenn gave me a 12 gauge Remington 1100 semi-automatic shotgun. It was a beautiful gun and I was thrilled. It has a large enough chamber that it can fire either 2 3/4 inch or 3 inch magnum shells. So I purchased a 30 inch barrel with a full choke to switch it into a waterfowling piece when hunting ducks and geese. I have used the gun primarily to shoot Chukar however, and in fact gave it a nickname as the result of one successful day.

We were in extreme Northern Nevada, near the Oregon border one fall. Buck and I were hunting over a very fresh light snow that allowed us to actually track the birds. I followed one group for nearly an hour, and came out on top of a high ridge. All of a sudden the area around me erupted in wingbeats. I shot at four birds and hit three! I was absolutely exultant. From then on I called my trusty 1100 "Chukar Slayer"!

"Chukar Slayer" was my first new shotgun. It is a beauty. Notice the large chunk out of the forearm. That was caused when I fell in a rockpile during a particularly tough day hunting.

The Sierraville district employees pitched 
in and gifted me this beautiful Browning
Silver Hunter for my retirement.

When I announced my retirement from the Forest Service in late 2007, a couple of people told me that the District employees wanted to purchase a shotgun for me to commemorate my service. I was amazed and flattered that they would suggest such a generous gift. They wanted me to pick something out that I would like. I opted for a 12 gauge browning "Silver Hunter". It is a beautiful gun, designed for carrying in the field for upland game birds. It is a modern version of the original "A5".

I did use the gun on many hunting trips after I left the Forest service. My German Shorthair, Remmy, liked it too. Our favorite spot was the northeastern Sierra Valley south of Chilcoot. It is definitely the best shotgun I own. Maybe someday in the future it will have some of the same allure as my older more historic family heirlooms.

My Silver Hunter has a few battle scars. The scratches on the stock bear witness to the  rocky and treacherous terrain that is the bane of all Chukar hunters. However, the gun gave more than it got.

From 1990 to 1996 we lived "down river", in Somes Bar. It was my first assignment as a District Ranger. Sometimes being the decision maker on a Ranger District can be an unpopular position. Especially in situations where the law and/or Forest Service policy conflict with the desires of the local people. It can be very tricky to balance local versus overall public interests when making decisions. Sometime you just can't do it.

I purchased this Springfield Armory Model
1911 A-1 in Yreka California.

At the Ukonom District there was a large population of Indians whose ancestors had lived there literally "forever". There was no reservation, and the land use policies of the Forest Service were in direct conflict with the wants and desires of these native people. Hard as I tried, conflict between the Forest Service (personified by me) and the Karuk tribal members developed. At one point I was informed that one local Indian man had said he was "going to shoot" me. After consulting with my law enforcement officer I decided to acquire a CCW (Carry a Concealed Weapon) permit and buy a handgun for self (and family) defense.

I bought a .45 caliber Springfield Armory 1911 A1 semi-automatic pistol at a store in Yreka. It was used and had been previously owned by a California Highway Patrolman. The gun was originally designed in competition for a US military contract in 1911. It was the standard sidearm for the US Armed Forces from 1911 all the way through World War II and into the 1990's. My Grandad was issued one, and carried it all through Europe during the war. It is an awesome gun, powerful and heavy. I am currently permitted to carry it concealed in Plumas County. It's not really the greatest gun to conceal due to it's size and weight, but I absolutely love it!

I kept this baby in the back of
Ol' Jack for years. 

The winter of 1976, when I got laid off from my temporary job as a timber marker and cruiser in California Hotsprings, Kim and I had all of our possessions (except our little calico cat, Persnickety) in storage at both of our folks homes. Aren't parents wonderful? We drove up to Lake Tahoe and stayed at the Barkley home for a bit, and then left the cat under the tender loving care of my mother-in-law. We headed out for an adventure that would last several months in "Ol Jack", my faithful VW bus.

Before we left, Kim's Grandfather, Carl T. Byrd, found out about our proposed travel and exploration plans and decided that we needed some protection. He pulled me aside and gave me his old Harrington and Richardson (H&R) 922 revolver. As the model number suggests, it is a nine shot revolver in .22 caliber. It is a very cool old gun. They were manufactured to be inexpensive and affordable. It is basically a small varmint gun or target shooting gun. It's not really made for self defense, although I would rather take one to a knife fight any day. The serial number suggests the gun was made in 1949. At one point the gun became quite corroded. Some moisture must have gotten into the old plastic case in which Grandpa Byrd gave it to me. I bought a gun bluing kit and cleaned it up. It is in good shape now, but you can see where it got pretty deeply etched in a few spots.

Smith & Wesson Masterpiece
.22 caliber revolver

The last gun I want to talk about is a BEAUTIFUL and pristine Smith & Wesson  H 22 Long Rifle CTG .22 caliber Model 17. It was made in about 1959, and it is known as the "Masterpiece". Apparently it is an extremely accurate and easy to handle revolver. I got this gun from my Aunt Lucille. She purchased it in 1960 as a gift to her husband, Uncle Frank. She said that she asked him what he wanted for his birthday, and this was it. She is not sure if he ever fired it, but she's certain that if he did, he didn't shoot it much. She wanted me to have it. I told her that I loved the gun, and that the next owner would be her namesake: Lucille Marcelle. This really pleased her.

I hope the stories behind my Family Guns make them more than just useful and interesting tools. I want them to connect my descendants with me, and also with our other family ancestors.

That's All!

Grandad's War

Signed to his son and daughter.

As long as I can remember, I knew that my Grandad Wilbanks was in the US Army in Europe during World War II. I knew he was in "Civil Affairs" and not a frontline combat soldier. He never gave me any details, but I remember looking at some war trophies that he brought home: a pair of artillery field glasses from a German officer, and a Nazi dagger. We played with these things as kids. We dropped the binoculars and made them unusable, and the dagger (which I still have) was busted up over time.  Thanks to us boys, the inlaid Nazi eagle and swastika symbol is missing, the scabbard is now dented and scarred, and the tip of the knife is broken off. We were so casual (as were my folks obviously) with our treatments of what today seem like treasures. I have discovered a lot about Granddad's service through his letters, photographs, and other documents. 

On May 8th, 1942, the Battle of the Corral Sea concluded in the South Pacific. As a result of the battle, the Japanese retired from the area and called off the invasion of Port Moresby, New Guinea. It is considered a major turning point in the Pacific War. In Europe, the Germans had reached their high water mark and would soon be defeated in the Battle of Stalingrad. The United States Army was still preparing for the invasion of North Africa. 

Also on that day, Grandad's National guard unit was activated and subsumed by the regular US Army. Initially as Captain in the field artillery, he received orders to report to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for training and organization. 

Grandad and Grandmother Margaret had split up two years earlier and my Dad was living with him and attending school in Holdenville. He was 15 years old, and since Grandad was going to war he needed to join his mother and sister in California. So Grandad put his son on the train to California on May 23rd or 24th, and reported for duty on June 1st. His guard unit would be assigned to the 45th Infantry Division. 

The Native American symbol of the 
Thunderbird was the 45th Division Logo.

Grandad was probably selected for service in "Civil Affairs" because of his law degree and experience as a judge and attorney. At this phase of the war the Army knew it would need specialized soldiers to pacify and bring order to territories successfully liberated from the Axis Armies. Most of those recruited for this job were successful business people, followed second by civilian lawyers. As one Army historian wrote they were looking for people of good judgement  “requiring great administrative ability and experience, great wisdom, diplomacy, and qualities of leadership.” It took almost two years of transfers, training, and reassignments for Grandad to end up in England for his "final" Civil Affairs training. 

He arrived in Shrivenham, England, at the American School Center in February 1944 to prepare for his duties following behind the invasion forces. He thought the countryside beautiful as he wrote to Aunt Marjorie: "Small farms looking like parks. Lots of green grassland - but the weather cold as all get out." He continued his training and preparation there in England until September of 1944, 3 months after the D-Day invasion of Europe. 

A transport ship offloads a military
truck called a "Deuce and a half".

"Well, at long last I am 'somewhere in France' " he wrote. It took three days after boarding ship to cross the channel and prepare to unload. They lifted loaded trucks, and Jeeps onto huge barges ("fifty or sixty to a barge") with "big cranes on the ship", they "climbed down rope ladders to the barge", got in their vehicles and headed for shore. Grandad had his "bed role and other stuff in (his) own jeep with driver and his equipment." The barges "nosed up to the beach and (they) all drove off and away."

By November of 1944, Grandad was in Tirlemont, Belgium, under the Ninth Army assisting in setting up training for the temporary occupation of the city of Düsseldorf. 

In December of 1944, he was on a mission to Haccourt, Belgium, (between Liege and Maastricht). They had guard duty at the Muese River bridge-heads. South of them, the German Army launched a massive counterattack, that became known as the "Battle of the Bulge", through the Ardennes Forest.  I don't know how close the combat actually came to Grandad. However, Dad told me a story about a close encounter with some unexpected German Tanks which may have been true, since Grandad was in the area.

In January, 1945, after the American Army pushed the Germans back out of Belgium, Grandad's unit got orders to do civil affairs work in Marche, Belgium, to help them recover from the destruction of the "Bulge". There is very little correspondence during this time and all the way up to March of 1945. I'm guessing he was pretty busy. However, in March he was complaining about being back at the training center in Tirlemont, Belgium. "Have nothing much to do now - back in the Military Gov. Training Center. The 'training' is mostly a joke - we are all fed up with 'training' but anxious to be at work."

He got his wish just a few days later. On March 7th, he was on the move. In a letter to Margaret he wrote: "Am in Germany, and do not think there will be any going back to Belgium, France or Holland, but that future moves will be across the Rhine and further into Germany. We came through a part of Holland just recently liberated - the flags were out and many civilians were waving to us as we came along." It was a different story as he passed through German villages and towns. They "were like ghost towns - not a civilian in sight. The few remaining in town stay inside houses and in cellars all the time except 2 hours per day when one woman per family may go out for food, water, and fuel."

US tanks advance through the
streets of Düsseldorf 

By the end of March his unit had reached the city of  Düsseldorf, on the west bank of the Rhine River, with the German's still in control of the east bank. "We see a lot of fireworks every night. We (I mean our Army) have machine guns on this bank
(about 200 yards from where we live) and Germans have some on the other bank. Just a few minutes ago they shot a burst of tracer bullets (which are red and you can see them in the dark - look like Fourth of July fireworks) over our house. However, the Germans do not shoot back much."

From Düsseldorf Grandad moved southwest into Bavaria. He was billeted in Uffenheim just east of Nuremburg for a while. Eventually he ended up in Regensburg on the Danube River. 

Grandad and his interpreter in 
Uffenheim, Germany

On May 8th, the Germans surrendered. "Well, today is V-Day, but just like any other day here. A few days ago we received a false report that the war was over and all proceeded to celebrate - but today and tonight it seems like no one is feeling like any celebrations." Actually, May 8th was the second surrender for the Germans. The day before they had surrendered to the US Army. Stalin was very upset, and demanded a second ceremony in Berlin on May 8th with high level Soviet representation. Perhaps the "false reports" had to do with the original surrender earlier.

Grandad settled into a routine. They moved into the Hotel Karmeliten (it was demolished in 2012). "I have a nice large comfortable room - good bed, but it sure is a lonesome, tiresome life over here." "Have been fairly busy last few days. All our large team is together here and I do nothing but legal work. advise when necessary and conduct military court for trial of civilians." Most of the cases were curfew violations. "When a violator comes before me it is 30 days in jail and 250 Reich Mark fine. Tough Ain't I? Well we have to let them know we mean business. They are used to being treated with toughness. They construe kindness as 'weakness'".

The Hotel Karmeliten in April 1945.
Grandad's room was "the 4th and 5th window
to your left from the corner of the building on 3rd floor."

The hotel Karmeliten in 2012, just prior to
demolition.

Grandad and his newly
confiscated car. "About the 
size of an Oldsmobile."

Grandad completed his service there in Regensburg on the Danube River. He eventually was assigned a civilian car that had been confiscated from a "German

SS Lawyer". It was a large, very nice car, and he was relieved to not have to use a Jeep anymore. He was assigned a German driver who spoke no English, but they managed to communicate well enough to get where he wanted to go. The man had been a non-commissioned officer in the German Army for six years, and was also a good mechanic. They got along well despite the language barrier. "He thinks more of that car I believe than he does of his wife. Sure takes good care of it. Keeps it washed and shined every day." The job as Grandad's driver was probably the best thing that could have happened to this man. A good paying job in a devastated country was an absolute and literal life saver. I'm sure he was working extra hard to keep it.

Standing on a "pontoon bridge over the Danube. Notice the bombed and demolished bridge in the background? That is upstream from where I was standing."

There was a "secluded place on the Knab River that runs into the Danube about 7 or 8 miles" away where Grandad and his fellow soldiers occasionally went to sunbathe, swim and relax.

"A view of a portion of the Cathedral of Regensburg, taken by me, Sunday June 3rd, 1945"

Souvenir program from "Organization
 Day" September 18, 1945

On September 18th, 1945, Grandad's detachment celebrated their establishment (anniversary) with a large dinner there in Regensburg. He went deer hunting with several of the other men to bring back venison for the main course. Grandad missed... but others we able to bag plenty for the large crowd attending (around 100). The souvenir program, which he sent to his daughter (Aunt Marjorie) included a timeline describing the important events and tasks his unit had undertaken. It has a lot of detailed information that made it possible for me to put this whole story together.

Grandad stayed and worked out of Regensburg for the rest of his wartime duties. He finally came home in 1946 and was discharged from the Army on May 25th. He went on to marry his second wife, Theta Gee (we called her "Granny") in 1947. Not long after the war, he joined the Veteran's Administration as a legal counselor. 

After such an eventful life, thank goodness Grandmother Margaret had saved this trail of pictures, letters and old stories.  It has truly been a gift to be able to sift though this treasure trove of family history:  a meager but oh so valuable legacy of part of the difference my Grandad made in the world. Thanks for ALL your service Colonel Wilbanks!

That's All!

It seems like such a long time ago...

 This last week I spent quite a bit of time going through a lot of old photos and correspondence of my Grandmother Margaret Ellen Red Wilbanks. My cousin Gordon Luce found the materials and knowing of my interest in our family history, gave them to me.

Looking at old family pictures from as far back as the early 1900's and reading letters written to my grandmother as far back as the 1930's gave me a ton of insight into my Dad's side of the family that I have never had before. They told a story. But sometimes the story was frustratingly incomplete. an unidentified person in a photograph, reference to someone obviously important but unknown to me in a letter. In the end, I am so grateful to have the opportunity to see this story, even though it is incomplete.

Ellen Adair Carey (left) and her sister
Ann. Ellen was Grandmother Margaret
Ellen Red Wilbanks' Grandmother.

I wonder if some day in the future an ancestor will stumble upon this family information, with the excitement and interest that has possessed me. Will they wish they had more info? Or will they be less interested, and perhaps move on to more pressing matters.

More pressing matters. As I look back on my life, the "more pressing matters" definitely change over the years. When I was much younger and my extended family was mostly alive to recount stories and answer questions, it wasn't a "Pressing matter" to me. So I mostly relied on the knowledge I gained through "osmosis" from my parents and grandparents. Stories told not through interrogation, but those that came up in the course of everyday life. Perhaps a few "proud moments" related to me at various times. After many years, and as the older members of my family passed on, I had the sense that I had a pretty solid feel for my extended family's history. Going through boxes and bags of old photos, records, and correspondence made me realize how much deeper the story was.

It also got me to thinking: how complete would my story be to my kids and descendants. I have written a few blogs about "things" in my life. Perhaps, I need to get a little more organized and tell the story as best I can. Somehow there is comfort in the thought that future Wilbanks' wouldn't be wondering and wishing they had asked me more questions while I was still around to answer them.

I was born in 1952 in San Diego California. I was the second son of four. My older brother, Thomas Donald Wilbanks III (Donnie), had been the first born two years earlier. He had been a "breach baby" delivered by my Mom with great difficulty. The doctor advised that I should be delivered via caesarian section, and my Mom readily agreed. I wrote about my earliest memories in an earlier blog. However, I want to recount the general events of my early life as I remember them. Many of these earliest memories are from what I learned from my folks.

I lived in San Diego for the first four or five years of my life. We lived in a small stucco house in the suburban area of La Mesa. I have disjointed memories of playing in a park sand box where I happened to excavate some cat droppings from the neighborhood wanderers. They seemed pretty interesting to me. Luckily my watchful Mom caught me before I put them in my mouth to see what they tasted like. Maggie wasn't so lucky with the bloated ticks from our dog Trooper!

That's me on the right standing up. Oddly
that's the same technique I use today!
Don's on the left

I believe it was here in La Mesa (perhaps later after we moved to North Hollywood) that I had a close call with Dad's "Toro" power lawnmower. As I remember it, it was a beautiful, sunny southern California weekend day and Dad was cutting the grass. He was emptying the grass catching bag into a pile on the side of the house. We might have been storing it there to compost into the garden later. I'm not sure what the final disposition was. But what little boys would not be fascinated by a giant pile of grass clippings to play on. Donnie and I went to it like bees to honey. 

Dad walked the huge growling orange mowing machine back and forth across the lawn while my big brother and I played. The scent of fresh cut grass and engine exhaust dominated. We soon discovered it was fun to pick up handfuls of grass from the big pile and heave them at each other. We were both running around barefoot, shirtless, and wearing shorts. The "grass-ball" fight distracted us completely from everything else. 

Suddenly the game became who could hit the other with a fistful of grass, and escape from being hit by a retaliatory toss. I'd hit my older brother with a grassy missile, but before I could run out of range he would nail me with another green glob. This went on for a bit, Donnie patiently waiting with his pre-loaded pasture ammo for me to approach and fling a load his way, then instantly targeting me before I could get away. I reloaded, determined this time to fling the vegetative grenade and flee so quickly that he would miss me. 

This was our house in North Hollywood.
 Looks like brother John standing by the tree
in the background.

Unfortunately for me, Dad was just approaching with the mower to dump another load when I threw, instantly turned to escape...and ran right into the machine. 

Luckily I stopped short of ramming my bare feet into the spinning blades of the grass eating monster. However, I couldn't stop my momentum, and flopped forward onto the mower. I remember the loud noise and vibration of the little 4 cycle engine and the sudden stop as my Dad quickly shut it down. I was sprawled over the top of the thing, my belly lying directly on the hot muffler. The pain was incredible. Dad grabbed me, yanked me back onto my feet, and saw the skin of my belly starting to blister.

The next thing I remember is being in the emergency room, with the doctor explaining to Mom and Dad how to care for my second and third degree burns.

I had been "branded" by the cooling fins on the engine's cylinder head. The pattern was that of four or so parallel strips of badly burned tissue. I remember Dad telling me that it looked like a tiger had clawed me, and that I could make up a cool story to tell all my friends about how I had wrestled with a tiger. Oddly, this seemed very comforting to me.

The burn healed without complication, and became quite a topic of conversation as I grew up. I usually told folks the truth. It finally became hardly noticeable, unless it was summer, and the contrast with my tan would still provide enough contrast to see it. It made some interesting conversations on a few dates to the beach. Even today you can still see a very faint scar. A reminder of that day I wrestled with the tiger that had somehow escaped from the zoo...OK, it was a grass fight with my big brother... and a lawnmower. Geeez!

That's All...for now!