Long about 1952, as a five-year-old, one day Dad, Uncle Stan and Uncle Vern were making a dump run and the back of the truck was filled with garbage. Two or three of us kids were invited to go along. I’m sure it wasn’t an invite from Dad but most likely from Uncle Stan who was much more appreciative of youngins. The adults were in the cab, and us kids jumped in the back, on top of the crap that was to be discarded. I set my butt in an old used sink basin, and I recall Stan turning around, looking through the back window and laughing at me taking advantage of the situation. Actually, the sink was a perfect fit for my butt back then…..today….not so much.

We arrived at the dump site, and the adults emptied the garbage. The three adults then set themselves down on one knee and proceeded to point their .22 rifles towards the unlimited targets that lay before them in the mounds of discarded debris while we youngsters frolicked and behaved like numb-minded, congealed blobs of DNA.

In my typical oblivious manner, I walked right in front of the superior intellects that held sway over those of us that are inferior to them as they were all aiming at their selected target.

There was an immediate volley of thunderous noise…..not shots but shouts of emphatic declarations of my stupidity to walk in front of them while they were shooting. Any and all blame was immediately handed to me for displaying such oblivion for failing to know all about rifles, bullets, firing squads and all that other stuff that 1st graders are so slow to learn.

I gotta tell ya, growing up isn’t as easy as it seems. No one was hurt, short of personal feelings on my behalf but it was a lesson on how guilt can be readily transferred from those that refuse to accept responsibility to those that they impugn.