Slingshot, A Weapon—Not a Toy

I suppose every boy in Dark Corner grew up with a pocket knife in his right front pocket and a slingshot in his right rear pocket. My older brother Wendyl may have been an exception, since he is left handed. Actually, he is ambidextrous. It always amazed me that he could climb up into a tree and chop a squirrel out of a hole from the right side or the left. He could also use a hammer in either hand. (Yes, we actually chopped into hollow trees to get squirrels to eat.)

Our slingshots were often referred to as a "pea shooter", or "beanie flip". They also had another name that was innocent enough t a child, but is now taboo. When I lived in Denison, TX (1964-1970) I got acquainted with Marion Walker, and African-American. Marion kenneled a few beagles for a local butcher named Earl Vick (not Earl Wayne Vick). Earl, Marion, and I would go out to Randell Lake at night and let our beagles run rabbits. Marion would be as sober as a judge when we went and I never saw him take a drink of anything, but invariably he would start showing signs of intoxication before the hunt was over.

I always carried my slingshot when I was out hunting, even when I was carrying a gun. The Apostle Paul said, "When I became a man I put away childish things." Well, I never did consider my slingshot to be anything but a weapon, it certainly wasn't a toy as far as I was concerned. I never considered as a child's toy and I never put it away. One night when Earl, Marion, and I were running our beagles I commented, "Marion, I haven't always called this a slingshot, so if I have a slip of the tongue I don't want you to get mad at me."

Marion replied, "I know what you call it." In a few minutes he wasn't feeling any pain and he said, "A while ago you were talking about your n---er shooter. Do you know how it got that name? My old grandma told me that the slave masters would carry one. If one person was lagging behind the others when they were working in the fields, the slave master would shoot him and it weren't no bean nor pea, it was a rock."

Marion also told us that his old grandma told him that the slave owners would boil greens and give the liquid "potlicker" to the slaves with cornbread. He said the slaves got fat while the others eating the greens with all of the nourishment boiled out were getting poor.

George French, the oldest son of Will and Laura (McCuan) French was the mail carrier in Dark Corner. After I moved to Kingston in 1949, George's son Bill and I would ride with George on his mail route and get out near our old White House. He would tell us, "Be out on the road when I come back by, or else you will have to walk back to town." We would each have a gallon can and run down the old gravel road that was between McDuffee Road and the railroad. That road had the best marble size, round rocks of any place around. We called them flint rocks, but they were probably chert. George also supplied us with rubber for the slingshots. Nothing but a red inner-tube would do, the black tubes were made from synthetic rubber.

It was just a little over a mile to the Moody McCuan place at the end of the road. The first stop George made was at our old house where Denver and Myrtle Mae Noris lived; the Ruel and Noral Bell Blankenship place was next. Dale McCuan lived on top of the next hill in the old Noge McCuan house. Phillip Lindsay and his folks lived on the next hill in the house where I was born. Ed Cooper lived just north of the Lindsay place. Then Moody and Eunice McCuan, my grandparents, lived where George would have to turn around and retrace his route.

Bill and I would be very selective in picking up the slingshot ammunition. Only the very best and proper size rocks would do. We preferred marble size rocks. Mufflers didn't last long on cars in those days, and we could hear George's old Ford long before he got back to pick us up. Once we heard that old car, Bill and I would scoop up just about any size rock in sight to fill our cans and then run to the road just as George came over the hill in front of the White House. We made that trip several times, but we never tested George to see if he would actually leave us if we were not out on the road. It would have been over a five mile walk carrying a gallon of rocks and we didn't want to take a chance.

We all loved George and appreciated his wit. Once an elderly man who lived across from the Post Office got a bit nosey and asked, "George, if it's any of my business, what do they pay you for carrying that mail?" George quipped, "It's not!"

The man who was recognized as the best shot with a slingshot in this area was Ross McCorstin. He never out grew his either.