Kids who have not grown up on a farm have missed the better part of life. There are so many wonderful and educational things to do and to get into.
One of the things that we did as kids on a farm is have wars. It didn't matter what ammo was available, war was eminent when more than one cousin got together.
We had wars with BB guns, wars with Hickory nuts, eggs, Easter eggs, rotten eggs, rocks, slingshots (the home-made type), and of course, the legendary corn cob.
There is something about a corn-cob that is almost magical. It has a rough surface which can skin the hide right off ya if it hits you just right.
The fresh ones were of little value. They had no weight to them. They were light, and did very little damage to the head, no matter how hard they were thrown.
The best ones were the ones that had been trampled under foot in the pig-pen for a while (and had lots of pig mud on it). It was hard, and heavy, and delivered a whallop that would nearly knock you out.
Being hit by one of those things is akin to getting run over by a train. And being thrown by a skilled cob warrior, the missle must be traveling somewhere close to the speed of light.
Also, if it was wet, the resounding pop was very reassuring to the deliverer that the deliveree was out of the war for at least a while! If he wasn't unconscious, then he was hiding so he could cry without being seen.
That pop sounded like somewhere in between a 12 gauge shotgun going off and a cannon. If it was your head that the cob was hitting, it sounded somewhat like the bomb that was dropped on Japan! Many a kid has gone to school on Monday with a beautiful black eye to show for the Sunday Corn Cob War games.
One of the cousins was a left-handed ball pitcher. He could anticipate when you were going to sight around the corner with just the smallest portion of your head sticking out. He could slide that cob across the exposed area, and nearly bring blood. Of course it felt like he'd torn off half your face!
It didn't take long to decide that you were on the wrong team. Many times this author has received welts from a well aimed corncob straight out of the pits of the pig pen. More bruises than you could count.
But the best thing of all, are the memories that will never be forgotten: my life with my cousins on Grandpa's farm in Arkansas.