Somehow, I Dodged All The Bullets

I WAS ONLY 12 YEARS OLD THE FIRST TIME A GUN WAS FIRED in my presence.

It happened one afternoon in 1953 in the tiny kitchen of the two-bedroom, one-bath house in which I grew up on Causton Bluff Road in Savannah, Georgia.

It also was a culmination of the final confrontation my parents would ever have. At least in person, that is.

I am not ashamed to say that my mother, Jessie Harrelson, was the love of my life. She was a beautiful woman and I was a mama's boy, which I say proudly. She doted on me, her only son. In turn, I did anything I could to put a smile on her face or to make her life easier.

On this particular day, that required coming to her defense by punching the man she had married several years before I was born. Later, as I grew up and when I became an adult, I never referred to him as "my father" or "Dad," even though that's who he was biologically. I never respected him enough to honor him with those designations, ones that should mean so much to any kid.

Smith Franklin Harrelson was a cheater and a mean drunk.

When he drank, he and my mother argued. When he drank a lot, or was caught cheating, they fought.

On this particular day, he had done both.

Earlier that day, he said he had to visit the hospital for whatever reason and that is when Mama had caught him cheating on her again, this time with a nurse.

I knew that Mama always carried a pistol in her purse for protection. As their verbal squabble was about to escalate into a physical fight, I was reading a book in my bedroom. I was used to hearing them fight, but I knew this one was different. Mama screamed even louder than usual. I walked into the kitchen to see if I could break it up.

I immediately noticed her holding that gun — and I could tell by the look on her face that she meant to use it.

I guess she'd had just about enough of his bullcrap. Every woman has a tipping point with a bad husband and she had reached hers. I was afraid she would kill him right then and there. Or worse, I thought he might take that gun away from her and shoot her. He wasn't a big man, but he was very strong and he had big hands and arms.

He grabbed her by the wrist as I charged at him. Suddenly, the gun went off. Fortunately for all three of us, the only casualty was the living room ceiling, since he had stretched Mama's arms up over her head.

I reared back with my small right hand and caught him square in the jaw. I must admit it was a pretty good punch for a kid in the seventh grade. But no punch from a 12-yearold would do much damage to a grown man. He looked down at me, somewhat in disbelief, and let go of Mama's arm.

He then turned and walked out the door — and that was the last time I saw the man who was married to my mother for many, many years.

"Kenny, you and I are on our own now," she told me soon after that. "But I will always take care of you." That episode was just a prelude of what was to come for Kenneth Smith Harrelson.

Over my lifetime, I would get into more scrapes than I can remember and more bar-room brawls than most career bouncers. I had a temper, developed some fighting skills, and never backed down from anybody.

Unless they had me outgunned ...

Four years after that bullet pierced a hole through our ceiling, in the summer of 1957, I was walking down the street in a low-income area of Savannah with my friend Hennon Warren. Hennon was one heck of a shortstop on my American Legion team. I don't remember where we were headed that night when we came upon a bicycle lying straight across the sidewalk.

"Some kid must have left it here," I told Hennon. "I'll take care of it for him."

I picked up the bike and carried it to a narrow spot between two houses where I figured it would be secure. I gently set it down, thinking the kid who owned it would easily find it the following day. Suddenly, just as that bike left my fingertips, the front door of the house swung open and a man walked out. He saw me immediately.

"You trying to steal my kid's bike? I am going to shoot you!"

I didn't even get a chance to explain my good deed before that man bolted back inside.

In that part of town, I knew exactly what he was headed for. But I was pretty fast and I also knew it was time to put my speed to use. I looked at Hennon and neither of us needed to say a word.

We took off running across the street as if our lives depended on it.

As it turned out, they did. The man was not bluffing.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Where I grew up, I recognized the sounds of gunshots.

I dashed for a used-car lot across the street, spotting a chain across the entrance in the darkness just in time. I hurdled it as the bullets whizzed by me onto the pavement. I didn't have time to warn Hennon about that obstacle, turning just in time to see him trip over it, landing headfirst on the pavement.

Of course, a little asphalt-rash heals much better than a bullet hole. It was a good thing the man was shooting at me and not at Hennon. He was lying prone on the pavement and would have been an easy target.

It also was a good thing this guy was not a very good shot.

Or maybe the darkness of the night saved me.

I will never know.

I would have loved to go back there at some point to inform the trigger-happy father I was only securing his kid's bike, but I didn't want to risk it.

That was not the last time I'd be shot at. One time when I was in my twenties, I planned on doing a little duck-hunting in Savannah. I walked about a half mile down to this river and noticed a car, sitting on a beaten path, rocking up and down like a boat on the Atlantic. Curiosity got the better of me, so I walked up to the car. I got about five feet away before I could see, well, let's just say some carnal relations were occurring in the back seat.

Suddenly, the man looked up and saw me peering inside.

Rather than stay and try to talk myself out of this jam, again I took off running.

I ran about 30 yards by the time I heard the familiar Pop! Pop! Pop! of a pistol again. I zigzagged through the open field and cut behind a tree just as a bullet carved a big hole into the bark inches from my head. I took a deep breath, turned, and continued running out of range, figuring the guy could not chase me with his pants around his ankles.

I never...