that's not how I remember it...45/366

I was raised with three younger brothers. Charles, Greg and David. I spent Christmas Day evening with my mom, Charles and David. Greg had prior commitments and was not able to join us. We ate a delicious meal and then sat and reminisced about our childhood. 

"I remember when we were growing up that Charles had a long fuse. He didn't get angry very often, but when he did, watch out! Once I took off running from him because I knew I had pushed him beyond his tolerance. He threw a straight screwdriver at me. I was on my way up the stairs and it stuck in the back of my leg."
My mom said, "I don't remember that."
I replied, "I didn't tell you."
I should have remembered that when he was angry he couldn't throw straight. If I had simply stood still he would have missed me.

They teased me about Dale, my first crush. 

We talked about a boy who'd been bullying Charles. We laughed over what happened when I told him to meet me on the corner after school. When he realized I was for real ready to do battle, he ran away.

The boys and my mom shared some stories and then I remembered and brought up the only other time I saw Charles angry. 

Donald was an older neighbor boy who lived across the street. I was in Junior High and he was in High School. He was another bully. Always aggravating one of my brothers. One day Charles had had enough and picked up a baseball bat, hit him and broke his arm.
All three of the family members sitting across from me were shaking their heads and began talking over one another.
"No"
"You are wrong."
"That's not what happened."
"Yes it is! I remember. And his mom was mad and came across the street and talked to you mom."
"Well, yes, Donald's arm did get broken. And his mom was angry. And she did come across the street and talk to me. But Charles did not break his arm. You did."
"WHAT?"
pause
"No, no I didn't, Charles did. I remember!"
"No, Charles did not break his arm. You did. Donald was bouncing a basketball off of David's forehead. (David is my baby brother.) You asked him to stop. Three times. When he didn't stop you picked up a steel pipe and hit him with it. You broke his arm. When his mom found out what he had done her anger turned toward him. When she found out that a girl had broken his arm she was even madder. She beat him all the way across the street back to their house."

Both of my brothers were grinning and nodding. It was three against one. But I still don't remember it that way... I guess mama bear mode in me has always been strong. I wonder what else I did to protect them that maybe should have been done differently? On second thought, maybe I really don't want to know. Breaking someone's arm and not remembering is enough to wrestle with.