"It's my turn!" I yelled. "It's my turn!"

Ignoring me, my brother turned the big coaster-wagon around in front of our house.

The wagon was heavy, with wooden bed and steering apparatus. The wheels were of wooden spokes encircled by iron bands. (No rubber tires in those day!)

It was heavy and unwieldy and bore little resemblance to today's lightweight, streamlined models.

The road ran past the front of our house and straight on without a turn for more than a quarter of a mile.

About half of that distance was down grade all the way, so if the road was in pretty good condition -- and you got a good start at the house -- you could coast at least one-eighth of a mile.

Really great -- except you had to pull the wagon back up the hill. And that wasn't so great.

This day, my nine-year-old brother and I were supposed to be taking turns.

I was four and could not possibly have pulled that wagon back home by myself.

Maybe he was tired of helping me on my turns; I don't know. At any rate, he was now getting ready to push off again.

"I said it's my turn!" I screamed angrily. "Give me my turn!"

Laughing at my demand, he started the wagon rolling.

Furious, I picked up a rock from the roadside and hurled it at him.

Probably the best throw I ever made in my life, the rock hit home, its jagged edge cutting deeply and wickedly when it struck him.

Needless to say, there was no more coasting that day.

My brother wore that scar on his upper lip the rest of his life - and every once in awhile made a point of reminding me of it.

I still look back with mixed amusement and despair, remembering the lovable child that I was.