Two Grenades for
  Two Brothers

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There are parents who object to their children playing with toy guns for fear that games of war might lead to violent behavior and a reckless disregard for human life. I understand, and maybe I agree, but in the 1960s, nearly all eleven-year-old boys had plastic tommy guns, plastic revolvers, plastic helmets, plastic bayonets, and plastic grenades. My parents thought little of my arsenal of molded plastic weaponry and, likewise, my grandparents certainly had no such qualms with war toys. Even real war toys. I am speaking of the pair of genuine World War II-era hand grenades stored in my grandparents’ cellar.

At this point, a couple of disclaimers are in order. Firstly, my parents were blind to the fact their two sons had discovered the existence and whereabouts of these curious relics. My father, a decorated war veteran, would have put an end to our fun had he known what my brother and I knew.  Secondly, despite allowing their two tow-headed grandsons to play with high explosives, Grandma and Grandpa were the grandest grandparents in the world.

How my grandma came into possession of these hand grenades is unimportant, but she and Grandpa had them stashed in a greasy old paper bag in the corner of the dank cellar of their west Louisville home. I thought the grenades were wonderful. So did John. Having hitherto played only with plastic grenades, the real ones seemed nice and hefty and, well, so very authentic.

They looked a little like green pineapples; a spring-loaded lever locked in place by a pin followed the curvature of the steel hull. A ring was attached to the pin. Even though I didn't understand long division, I knew how to detonate a hand grenade. Gripping the bomb with the lever secured against the palm of the hand, the pin is released by a quick yank of the metal ring; when the grenade is heaved, the spring-loaded lever activates an internal fuse. In a matter of seconds, the exploding grenade sends enough flying shrapnel to wipe out a machine gun nest. Or two careless schoolboys.

Maybe playing with live grenades sounds horribly morbid, but my brother and I were careful so as not to blow each other up. I don't think we actually played with the grenades; we simply removed them from the paper bag and, well, fondled them while Grandma folded clothes from the dryer. Once the laundry was finished, John and I would lose interest in the grenades and rush outdoors to play. Besides, the landmines in Grandma's flower garden were far more interesting. Okay, only kidding!

Why did Grandma allow us to play with live munitions? I think she had a rather elevated view of her grandchildren. In her estimation, we were the smartest children in the world. We could do no wrong and that included blowing ourselves to smithereens. Had someone suggested that little boys should not play with explosives, Grandma would have laughed saying this might be true for ordinary children, but her grandsons had more sense than to detonate live hand grenades. In a strange way, I suppose Grandma was right; no real harm came from our play, but now that I am an adult with a child of my own, I am an advocate of keeping children out of arsenals, munitions plants, and the likes. Grandma's opinion of her grandsons was entirely too lofty. She should have given us Legos instead.