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The Great Chinaberry Wars By Richard Leech
When
I was a kid growing up in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, way back in the '50s, the
worst time of the year had to be late summer, the time between the end
of our kids' baseball leagues and the start of school. Baseball was number
one and without a game or practice to look forward to each day the dreaded
approach of another school year loomed insistently ahead.
Fortunately, along about late August into September, the chinaberry trees
provided some much needed diversion. I couldn't tell the difference between
an elm, an oak, or a poplar tree; didn't have any need to, but I could
spot a chinaberry tree two blocks away and knew where they all were located
within a 12 block radius of my house.
The chinaberry trees produced round, hard, green berries that made super
slingshot ammunition. The chinaberries were just the right size for our
small, homemade slingshots. They were not perfectly round but were smooth
and flew accurately. They were hard but not too hard, not like a rock.
After all, the object was not to draw blood but for one's victim to howl
with temporary yet excruciating pain. Although we were pre-teens and teenagers
we weren't barbarians. Also, the chinaberries were just right so the occasional
errant shot would rarely break glass or dent an automobile, thereby keeping
parents and other adults from interfering drastically in our healthy activity.
The best chinaberry tree was one in an obscure location that only you and
your very closest friends knew about, a secret to be guarded with one's
life. Since most trees were well known, as soon as the berries reached
the right growth stage the lower branches were stripped clean by the teeming
warrior hoards. As many as a dozen bicycles might be under a tree at a
time. There seemed to be an unwritten rule that barred attacks beneath
the trees during the initial gathering of ammunition. But, after the lower
branches were stripped, only the foolish or very desperate stranger climbed
into a tree to gather from the higher branches. The boy in a tree was truly
"out on a limb," immobile and unprotected from the circling vultures who
would cruise around the neighborhood with full loads of ammunition seeking
the outsiders robbing our trees.
The amount of ammunition one had was essential; you just couldn't have
too many chinaberries. At the beginning of the season, until that first
full pack was on your bike, you had a feeling of uncertainty and growing
concern, not really knowing what it was but knowing that something was
dreadfully wrong.
The most important invention ever to a kid in the '50s was the bicycle.
It was our Chevy, our Trigger, our half-track, and our getaway car. Big
old balloon tires, a patented shock absorber above the front wheel, and
a genuine coaster brake; no 10-speed gears or hand brakes for those babies.
Girls and nerdy boys might have a basket attached in front of the handlebars
but not us, no sir. The only acceptable carrying device was a surplus army
pack, strapped to the rear of the bike as a "saddlebag." This was
the carrier for all our treasures while mobile, but caused some problems
during the chinaberry season.
The problems were that the pack had to be filled with chinaberries as soon
as possible, and kept full from then on, leaving no way to carry other
essentials such as baseball cards, baseballs and gloves, 45 RPM records,
or footballs. The easy solution was to have a second pack, but this was
not always possible for many reasons. You couldn't always afford another
pack or find someone to trade with; the one army-navy surplus store in
town might not have them when you suddenly realized you desperately needed
one; and they tended to be misplaced easily or disappear. Theft was never
a problem during those days but real army packs, web belts, canteens, and
collapsible shovels were valuable items that never seemed to be where you
last put them.
The pack full of chinaberries was always moved to the front of the bike,
above the front wheel, and fastened to the handlebars for faster firing
access. This caused another problem: a full pack was heavy and made steering
the bike a shaky proposition, at best. But, it was more important, more
manly, to be able to return hostile fire with heavy fire of your own than
to immediately run from danger like a scared dog. And perhaps the enemy,
seeing the heavy stock of ammunition, would be less diligent in pressing
the attack than if the intended victim was obviously low on ammo.
It was never expressed or discussed but there seemed to be a code of ethics,
maybe a Geneva Convention Code of Pine Bluff, that kept the slingshot attacks
even and fair. Almost all battles were fought with even numbers of warriors
on both sides. Two or three guys didn't gang up on one to smash him to
smithereens; it simply wasn't done. And there were very few one against
one battles. One might begin but would quickly end in a truce, with the
two combatants joining forces to search for other victims to attack together.
I think it was more fun to have an ally, and made good sense militarily
to have help in watching the flanks and guarding the rear.
Oh, on occasion things might get a little out of hand if there was a grudge
involved, or if outsiders came into our territory. But there was really
very little of this, and the battles were more tests of marksmanship, tactics,
and witty taunts than a real desire to hurt someone. Occasionally an accident
might happen, or a really lucky shot, that caused harsh words between friends
and dire threats of retribution.
I still regret the time I happened to hit a close friend's younger brother
with a really long shot as he hid behind grapevines far away in his backyard.
See, it was like this: "It's so far I probably can't hit him. He's behind
the vines so a shot can't get through. Even if it hits him, it's so far
that it won't hurt much, anyway." I don't think I was mean, just being
a boy who happened to make a really good shot. His mother, unfortunately,
had much to say to me about the incident and I think she regarded me with
cool suspicion from then on.
The average boy on the typical late summer, early fall day in Pine Bluff
was extremely vigilant, his senses honed to detect the slightest hint of
attack. The air resounded with the snaps of slingshots, the zings of countless
chinaberries, and the occasional yowl of an unfortunate victim. This was
almost a life-and-death situation! The sting of a green chinaberry on unprotected
flesh was not quickly forgotten.
The great chinaberry wars continued as long as the chinaberries were green
and hard. Once they began to ripen, turning yellow and soft, the game was
over and attentions quickly shifted to the football season and school activities.
But the pocket-sized slingshots, made from coat hangers and medium rubber
bands, were put in hibernation to await the next great chinaberry war season.
