How Bobby Stone Really Broke His Arm Mom said, ”Don’t go climbing up that fence.” Mom didn’t know that today was the day Bobby Stone and I were learning to fly. My little brother wanted to fly, too, but he was a “good” boy and didn’t have a lot of dare in him yet. We didn’t have wings or capes. The top of the chicken coop looked high enough. I snuck a big, black umbrella from Grandma’s stand. It wasn’t a parachute, but it did open up pretty wide. “Bobby,” I said, “I’m going to jump with this umbrella.” “Dare you to go first,” he said. “Double dare you. You can use the umbrella if you go first.” Bobby climbed the fence to get on the roof and jumped. The black part of the umbrella flew backwards. Bobby hit the sidewalk pretty hard. When he stood up, his arm just sort of hung there. Bobby said, “Don’t tell my mom I was trying to fly. She told me not to talk nonsense.” He started to cry big tears and held his funny arm. I folded up the umbrella and pushed it through a hole in the fence into the neighbor’s yard. Mom said, “What happened?” “Bobby just fell down on the sidewalk and hurt his arm.” “Really?” and her eyebrows went up. Later Grandma asked if I had seen her umbrella. I said no. Grandma said, “Memories may be elastic, but the truth never is.”
Ruth Ann Allaire, Ph.D., is a retired college biology professor, who lives in Fredericksburg, VA. She is ac-
tive in writing, gardening, genealogy research and studying various healing modalities. Married, she volunteers for Mental Health of Fredericksburg and the Virginia Master Naturalists.
Fall 2013 Volume 1, Issue 1
A compilation of the Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review, Volumes 1 and 2 (2013-2014)