“Have I ever told you the story of Sammy Patterson?” Grandpa Joe asked, leaning back in his chair. Everyone settled down and got comfortable. Whenever Grandpa Joe started out with “Have I ever told you the story…” it was bound to be interesting. “It was the summer I turned fourteen,” Grandpa said, closing his eyes and reliving the past…

…The Pattersons moved into the Charles’ old home. Mr. Patterson worked at the grain elevator, Mrs. Patterson got involved with various societies at the church, but it was Sammy who caused the family to get noticed. He was a lanky lad with sandy-blonde hair and a face full of freckles with a mischievous smile plastered on it.

Well, one day, Jane Potter and I were biking when a bang startled us and a fireball whizzed in front of us. Jane swerved, running into me. We both tumbled into the ditch on the side of the road.

“What was that?” gasped Jane as we recovered ourselves and I was left with a forlorn face looking at my banged up bicycle. I did not know and looked around for an answer. Sammy Patterson was the answer. He was standing by their house laughing, a pile of fireworks at his feet.

“He’s going to get someone hurt,” I muttered putting our bikes back on the road.

About two weeks later, Sally Turner got the shock of her lifetime (limited as it was to fourteen years). We were leaving prayer meeting when a shrill howl rang out behind her. Sally jumped six inches and wheeled around. Sammy Patterson was leaning against the church door; his face covered in war paint (some of which looked distinctly like mud) and a band full of feathers adorned his head. He held a bow and arrow. “I heap big warrior,” he announced proudly.

“You heap big idiot,” I retorted, “I’ve never seen an Indian with fair skin and blonde hair.”

“Joseph,” my mother said in a disproving voice, “That’s not a kind thing to say. Sammy just moved here, you should be nice to him.”

The last thing I wanted to do was be nice to him. After all, he caused my new bike to be dented and almost got Jane and I hurt, not to mention frightened Mr. Henderick’s dog half to death with one of his firecrackers two nights before.

It soon appeared that Sammy’s Indian obsession was not a passing fancy. He wore his Indian outfit almost everywhere. Sammy’s imagination worked better than his responsibility and he saw prey everywhere: Mr. Jones tractor, the side of their garage, and Mrs. Rockton’s roses. (Luckily for them and him, he was not the greatest shot and never hit one.)

Whenever we visited the Phillips, who lived next to the Pattersons, we learned to check twice whether Sammy was around before venturing outside. Ben Phillip and I were sitting on their porch one day when a scream caught our attention. We raced to the edge of the porch and looked out.

“Oh, no!” gasped Ben, seeing Annie, his six-year-old sister sprawled on the ground at the end of their driveway.

We dashed down the driveway. Annie was groaning in pain when we arrived. She and her bike lay in a twisted heap. I sprinted to the house for Mrs. Phillips.

Ben leaned over his sister and tried to get a response from her. All she did was moan. He was very distraught by the time Mrs. Phillips and I arrived. Ben and I helped her load Annie into the car and they raced into town.

We stood in the driveway watching them go. As the car disappeared out of site, we both turned to look at the scene of the accident. Annie’s bike still lay there. An arrow was sticking out of the front tire.

Our eyes turned toward the Patterson’s house. Sammy was leaning against the side of it, strumming his bow string.

“You,” shouted Ben, “You caused my sisters accident!”

“She should not have been riding a buffalo,” Sammy replied with a laugh. “It was a great shot, you must admit.”

Ben was enraged. He started toward the house. I grabbed his arm. “He’s crazy,” I said, “It’s not worth fighting him. Besides, he’s a bigger than you. Just wait until his dad finds out about this.”

Mr. Patterson did feel terrible about it and determined to punish Sammy. Several of us were skeptical about what good this would do. Sammy never seemed to feel bad about anything he did.

Once school started, our dislike for Sammy increased. He always had firecrackers on him and was not afraid to use them between classes or at lunch. His bow and arrow never showed up in the classroom, but Ben told us he still used it at home. His younger siblings were too scared to go outside.

I still held that Sammy was insane and by the end of September everyone agreed with me. One evening, a group of us went to the movies in the next town over. Several of us piled into Jack Potter’s pick-up truck for the homeward drive. We laughed and sang. Suddenly, a series of flashes light up the sky, followed by several loud booms. The girls screamed. Ben and I watched the glow of the lights in the sky. Fireworks are always cool to look at. Another series of fireworks went off. This time aimed a little lower. One of the landed in the field just behind us, part of it caught on fire. As I watched the fire spread, the truck lurched and I almost went sailing out of the bed. A loud pop followed. Sparks flew as the wheel hub hit the pavement.

No one has ever been quite certain what happened in the next few moments. Jack attempted to pull the truck to the side of the road. Another flurry of fireworks flew near us. The next thing I knew, I was laying in the ditch looking up at the sky. The truck was upside down ten feet away and the entire field behind me seemed to be going up in flames. I scrambled to my feet. Jenny laying on the ground near by crying. I helped her up. Amazingly, we were both just bruised. As I turned to look for the others, Jack was crawling out of the cab of the truck. I could see Jane pinned underneath the truck bed. She did not respond to Jack.

“Run for help,” Jack yelled, seeing me standing there.

I bolted for the Jones’ house and practically banged down their door. Mr. Jones rushed to help us while Mrs. Jones called the police. As I ran back to the crash site, police cars and ambulances arrived lights and sirens blaring. Jenny and I stood on the side watching them load the injured into the ambulances. Jack would not move from the side of the truck. Eventually, our parents came and took us home. I will never forget the image of Jack sobbing by the side of the truck. When they pull Jane’s body out from under the truck, it was determined that she had been killed instantly. The funeral happened a few days later and was a very sober time. All of us had to wonder could it have been me?

Of course, everyone wanted to know what caused the crash. An arrow in one of the wheels gave answer to that. Sammy Patterson calmly explained to the police officers that he had set up a system so that he could use his bow to set off fireworks. He declared that it worked quite well and he only missed twice. He was eager to show it to the police officers. No one wanted to see it. He never seemed to understand what his invention had done. Mr. Jones lost most of his crop that year, four teenagers were seriously hurt, and one was killed all because a madman wanted to shoot arrows and fireworks at once.

Needless to say, the Pattersons headed out of town soon after that and I have not heard of them since. Quite frankly, I hope I never do.