I grew up in a household with four boys and no girls. Without meaning to suggest that girls are not, I can definitively say that boys are naturally curious. There came a time when my parents brought some Christmas presents early in December. It became our life’s mission to find out where those presents were hidden, what they were, guess who they belonged to, and ultimately play with them long before Santa brought them down our non-existent chimney.
I was the second oldest of the four boys, the first three approximately two years apart. We were all quite different in personality. The oldest was quieter and had nerdish traits, preferring chess and airplanes over sports. I was perhaps the most reckless and got into far more trouble than my older brother. The brother, two years younger than me, was able to learn from his two older brothers and got into less trouble while being slightly more devious. The youngest was a baby at this time and not a participant in this story.
Because both our parents worked, we were home alone for at least brief periods most days. We had chores we were responsible for, which should have taken up much of that time, but there was always time to get into something, and the mission to discover those presents was a top priority. The detached garage was eliminated early on, and almost everything was clearly visible. While there was an attic, a quick search utilizing the pull-down ladder eliminated that possibility.
Because we’d glimpsed the sizes of some of the boxes, many potential locations in our house were eliminated because they couldn’t hold the items in question. We’d settled on my parent's bedroom as the only remaining possibility, which we’d pretty much saved for last as that was known to be forbidden territory.
We eventually gathered the courage and began the search. It didn’t take long to focus on the closet, and we discovered bags containing yet-to-be-wrapped presents, including the ultimate prize: a remote-controlled Jaguar XKE. We were not deterred by the need for batteries, as we were able to strip them from discarded toys from earlier times. We played with that car until we thought it was no longer safe and then boxed it back up until the next opportunity.
When Christmas finally came, the Jaguar went to my older brother, who would never appreciate it as much as I would have. I got a model airplane, which, within hours of being put together, was destroyed by my younger brother, who “wanted to see if it could fly.” The story could have ended there, but another item intrigued me: a gun.
We did not know the gun was in the house nor did we know its purpose. Until Christmas passed, it was sufficient to play with the toys and revel in our secret time, but the knowledge of the gun was always there. My brothers and I never discussed it, and I have no idea if they harbored my curiosity. It was rare that I found myself home alone, but on one such occasion, I was determined to satisfy my curiosity about the gun. I slinked back to the closet; it was still there on an upper shelf behind other items. It was unloaded, but there were some bullets of different sizes in a box, and I took one I believed would fit.
I was dying to fire a gun and searched my brain for the best way to do it. I went down to the basement, where an approximately 3-foot x 3-foot closet containing the water heater was the only spot in the home with a dirt floor. The plan that shaped my then 11-year-old brain was to fire the gun into the dirt where it would no doubt go straight down, leaving little evidence that I could easily cover up. I hadn’t calculated for noise, which would likely be heard at least a few houses away as there were windows from the basement to the outside.
I loaded the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger… and nothing happened. They say God protects fools and little children, and he got two for one that day. The “dirt floor” was packed so hard that there would have been no possibility for the bullet not to ricochet. At best I could have killed a water heater, at worst me. I thought at the time it may have been the wrong size bullet. Later, I wondered if there was a safety that kept me from accomplishing something very foolish. A warning to those who own guns: whatever safety measures you employ, a determined child may have the means to overcome them. Others may not be as lucky as I was that day.
This article originally appeared on Substack and is edited and republished with author's permission. Read more of William Spivey's work on Substack.