All of these stories make me laugh as I did all the same stuff. We lived in Orange County in a new development when the Manson murders took place. Me and all the boys in the new tract split into two teams and commenced a dirt clod war. I was accurate as hell with a dirt clod.

Hiding behind a 50 gallon drum on it's side, apparently my head stuck out enough to get hit. This hit hurt more than most. Rubbing my head, it felt really wet. Blood was everywhere. Some little bastard hit me with a jagged piece of unfinished cement. Everyone scattered. There was a blood trail from the from the barrel, through a catwalk and all the way to my kitchen sink.

Stepdad comes home a couple minutes later and we're off to get stitches. No note left behind. Mom comes home to open front door, blood trail through the house and blood all over the sink and dishes. Arrive home a couple hours later eating an ice cream cone. Mom is out of her mind talking to the cops thinking another Manson event took place. Stepdad gets a talking to by mom. Me and stepdad are grounded for a couple days.

I think that one took a year or two off mom's life.