My brother did the bulk of his childhood explosives explorations on the edge of the riverbank in Tucson; left that behind when we came to L.A. Or intended to, at least. One of his friend's dad joined the police reserves and 9th grader Eric thought it would be really cool to have a cross section of a complete shell. A "blank" with its wooden plug for a projectile seemed like a perfect specimen. He was in the middle of sawing it two, lengthwise, when it got hot enough to explode. Wooden peg or no, it was a live round and without a barrel to contain it, the brass split and twisted into a really wicked piece of shrapnel that burrowed its way up into his left bicep.

The roar was deafening and he was found holding his ears, at first oblivious to the wound, as we came running out to the carport. I was sent back inside to make what would now be the 911 call, but actually, that was through the operator in those days. As I was dialing, a family friend coincidentally arriving for dinner drove Eric and my mother to the emergency room. Not knowing what had really happened, of course, I reported that my brother had just shot himself, thinking we'd get an ambulance sent over. Boy, did the cops swarm, checking out this "suicide attempt." Undoubtedly most embarrassing for him when the actual events were reconstructed. Probably even more delicate for the police department when they realized where he'd gotten that live round!

He was in the hospital for a couple days, seems like, and has a long, half-moon scar where they went in to remove that brass. Brought it home in a little box--I wonder if he still has it.