BB Guns, Bare Feet, and Bad Decisions

Growing up in the country, my brother and I had the kind of childhood that would make today’s parents break out in hives. We were Gen X kids, raised in an era where no one really gave a damn as long as we weren’t on fire or missing a major limb. If we got hurt, well, that was just a lesson in natural consequences.

Now, if you were a kid in the country, having a BB gun wasn’t just a hobby—it was a status symbol. The town kids didn’t get it. They had skateboards and arcades; we had weapons disguised as “toys” and a full backyard battlefield. Any target was fair game: tin cans, fence posts, road signs, the occasional unsuspecting blackbird. If it moved, we shot at it.

It was the mid-80s, and while I don’t recall exactly how old I was—probably around 10, maybe 12 at most—I do remember it was late spring or summer. The yard was a soggy mess, and the drainage ditches were full of water. This is important because this is where my moment of brilliance took place.

Now, was this act of self-inflicted pain intentional? No. Was it avoidable? Also no, because I was a barefoot country kid who made decisions based purely on impulse.

Shoes? Not an option. They were always getting left somewhere inconvenient, and with the yard being a muddy swamp, it just made sense to go barefoot. The only downside? Exposed toes.

On this fateful day, my brother and I were out with our BB guns, doing what any responsible pre-teens would do—engaging in unsupervised target practice. Typically, we aimed at blackbirds or sparrows, but that day, the ditches were full of frogs. And let me tell you, trying to hit a frog with a BB gun is way harder than it sounds.

Now, at this stage in my life, I hadn’t exactly taken any hunter safety courses, but I knew the basics:

Don’t point a gun at people.

Don’t shoot things you don’t intend to kill.

And apparently, don’t factor in the fact that your own damn feet are in the line of fire.

I took careful aim at one lucky frog as he dove, tracked his movement in the murky water, and pulled the trigger—totally focused, totally confident…

Then, POP!A sharp sting hit my left foot. Specifically, my pointer toe, right next to my big toe.

I lifted my foot out of the water, expecting to see nothing more than a harmless little scrape, but no—I had successfully, and quite precisely, shot myself in the toe. And not just grazed it—no, sir. The BB was lodged right in the first knuckle, gleaming like a tiny chrome trophy of stupidity.

Now, I’d love to say I reacted like a tough country kid, shrugged it off, and kept shooting. But in reality, I did what any rational child would do in that moment:

I briskly walked (okay, limped) toward the house, calling out for my mom, fully expecting some level of sympathy.

I had not accounted for the Gen X parenting philosophy.

I proudly displayed my newest achievement in life, only for my mom to take one look, sigh, and deliver what I can only assume was the official parental slogan of the 80s:

“Figure it out.”

No panic. No rushing for tweezers. No lecture. Just a firm, unapologetic “not my problem.”

Well, okay then. I had two options: live the rest of my life with a BB embedded in my toe, or get it out myself. Since I had never popped a zit before, I used the next best logic available to a 10-year-old—apply pressure and see what happens.

I placed both thumbs on either side of my toe, took a deep breath, and… POP!

That BB launched across the room with the kind of velocity that should have been studied by NASA. I never found it again, which honestly sucked. I really would’ve liked to keep it as a souvenir. Then again, knowing me, I probably would’ve reloaded it and shot at some unsuspecting bird.

One thing’s for sure: I never aimed at another frog again, barefoot, standing in a flooded ditch.

Lesson learned. Sort of.