“Oh, I think I cut myself!” I remember saying that. In truth it may well have been my Mom, and no doubt lots of other folks, who toldme that I said this.

It was in June of 1944, a day that must have been warm and summery in Mobile, Alabama. My parents had moved to Mobile from our home in Rolling Fork, Mississippi, so my dad could get training at the military air base in Mobile. My mother, who had been a school teacher in Rolling Fork, decided to quit that job so that she and I could accompany my father through his wartime travels.

That June day in Mobile, my friend Glen Presley and I had slingshots, which nobody's mother had forbidden us to play with, and our plan was to arm ourselves with a sack of rocks and go somewhere to hone up on our slinging. This was just practice, training, a warmup. No Goliath was yet in evidence, but we felt strongly that we needed to be ready if and when he did show up.

We found some rocks, but it was getting an ammo belt that was our problem. It had to be some kind of sack that could be tied to our belts or shorts, so we could have both hands free to load and sling. The perfect solution appeared in my mom's kitchen: a couple of those string bags that potatoes came in. The bag had a nice big opening at the top, and the mesh was just fine enough to hold our ammo.