I spent hours of my childhood in manufacturing weapons. I had read books about Cavemen, Indians, Fiji Islanders, and all sorts of stone-weapon makers from ancient times, and all around the world, some still in business. I was fascinated by the idea that ordinary stones could be made into axes, knives, and arrowheads.
If they could do it, maybe I could too.
Grandad Bill's watch fob was an Indian arrowhead he'd found on the farm. I studied it. It was so much more useful to see the real thing instead of just pictures in books. Grandad told me it was a flint arrowhead. He said flint was a very hard stone.
I couldn't locate any flint in the barnyard.
Other types of stone would have to do.
I discovered that other types of stone would not do.
I tried, anyway. First I looked around for flat stones that were already shaped a little bit like the axe-head I intended to make. Stone after stone fell apart at my first attempt to chip it into proper shape. I tried all kinds of stones. Apparently I was wrong about my notion that ordinary stones could be made into weapons.
Eventually I found a few stones that weren't ordinary, quite. It took a while, but I finally managed to chip one of these stones into a passible axe-head, including a rough cutting edge. The next step was to fasten axe-head to handle.
There were lots of ready-made wood sticks around to make a handle. I passed on these because I thought a small tree branch would be more in keeping with my intention to make my weapon in the traditional manner.
It was easy to find a suitable branch. I cut the branch to proper length, then split one end of the branch open with my pocket knife. I bound stone to wood with an old set of wang shoestrings. Wang shoestrings were perfect for the job because wang is nothing more than narrow strips of leather.
I realized at the time I wouldn't be able to use wang shoestrings as binding very often. Most of the wang on the farm was already in full use as shoestrings. I switched to binder-twine for further efforts, and later yet, thin wire from Uncle Bud's toolbox.
Anyway, I pulled the wang wrapping as tight as my nine-year-old strength permitted. It looked good. It looked like the pictures I'd seen in books. I swung my stone-axe against the nearest tree. It broke into two pieces.
I was sad, but not dissuaded.
Hours of effort evolved into a summer of effort.
It was clear my efforts would not be rewarded by any of the local stones.
I scanned about for other possibilities, including a different weapon than ax. Bow and arrow came quickly to mind. I carved a pretty good bow out of leftover lath. Binder-twine served as bow-string. The arrows took more work.
I used my pocket knife to split another lath into six, long, square-edged pieces. Hours of patient shaving later, I had six round-sided arrow shafts.
Next, fletching and arrow-heads.
Abundant chicken feathers made fletching easy. Arrow-heads required more R&D.
I first tried arrowhead shaped stones secured to the shaft with thin wire. Subsequent testing demonstrated the same problem I'd had with the stone ax.
My hope for paleolithic weaponry was as shattered as my clunky stonework.
Broken shards of glass worked a little better, but not much better. They fell apart after only a few shots. Either the shard broke into smaller shards, or the wire-binding worked loose from the shaft.
Weaponry research is fraught with agonizing rounds of try, fail, and try again.
While starring at a discarded tin-can lid I had an inspiration. With the help of pliers from Uncle Bud's tool box I folded the lid, in two, and then again. I unfolded the metal enough to slide it over an arrow shaft. With some more fussing with the pliers, I managed to securely crimp metal to wood.
My first shot left my arrow quivering in the trunk of the old elm tree.
Happier yet, the tin-can arrowheads were reusable, plus, tin-can lids could also be folded into small knives and spearheads. I spent the rest of the summer exploring the possibilities.
The stone-age was now behind me. Tin-can lids were a big improvement, still, I longed for even-better materials. A better material came to me by way of serendipitous discovery.
Sometime, near the end of summer, I came across a peculiar copper tube.
One end of the tube was an opening of nearly two inches. The other end came to a point. The whole thing was about a foot and a half long. I found it tucked away in a crossbeam of the garage. I don't know what it had been intended for. The dust made me think it had been forgotten.
I saw the potential immediately.
I sawed off the broom part of a worn-out broom, slipped the opening of the pointed copper tube over the broomstick, then I banged the butt-end on the floor until the pointed copper tube was firmly attached to the shaft. I secured it even better by crimping either side of the tube in the workshop vice. The crimping also made it the proper shape of a spearhead.
It was a beauty; a real spear; elegant and deadly.
My era of manufacturing weapons cumulated in this excellent spear.
Many bales of hay fell to the lethal cast of my spear. I carried it everywhere. One day, when I was distracted by something or other, I leaned the spear against a shed. When I reached back to get it, the spear was gone. Then I heard a bang, followed by a scream.
I ran to the screaming.
Cousin Donna was sitting on the ground with blood streaming down her leg. Uncle Roscoe was tryin to get a towel tied 'round the wound. There was a lot of shouting. I don't remember exactly what was shouted.
I found out later.
Cousin Donna took it into her head to prank me. She grabbed the spear when I wasn't looking, then ran to the back of the house and tried to hide my spear in the opening under the propane tank. For some unknown reason, she threw it butt-first which bounced it off the wall behind the tank. The swift rebound sent the spear, point first, to a point a few inches above her right knee.
I never saw the spear again.
The excellent spear became a memory - almost mythical.
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Fifty-plus years later I got an update.
Donna and I had both returned to Missouri for our Aunt Arlen's funeral. It was an impressive gathering. Aunt Arlen was a wonderful lady. Thirty or forty folks, maybe more, came to show their respect. It was good to see so many relatives I hadn't seen for such a long time. It was good to hear the old stories and catch-up on what had happened since.
In the midst of catching-up I asked Donna if she remembered the spear incident. She lifted her skirt above her right knee to reveal a jagged quarter-inch white scar.
My memory of the excellent spear is excellent.
Donna's memory of the excellent spear is indelible.