At five-years-old, I discovered I was invincible.

I woke up one morning, early and hungry. I slipped out of bed. Barefoot, I crept silently out of the bedroom door so as not to wake my brothers and sisters. I tiptoed past my parents' bedroom and into the kitchen in search of a snack.

A lime green sucker sat on the counter. Finders keepers, losers, weepers.

Our family wasn’t "Appalachian dirt farmer" poor, but still, my dad had to work two jobs to make sure we had food on the table and a roof over our heads. We were all thankful to have enough to eat. Desserts and sweets were the things dreams were made of, so finding a treasure such as this lying on the counter was truly a gift from the heavens.

The sucker disappeared in three bites. But the sweet tang of lime on my tongue didn’t materialize. Instead, a vile taste filled my mouth. I dropped the stick back onto the counter and raced to the refrigerator to find something, anything, to drown out the horrid taste. With both hands, I grabbed the half-gallon milk bottle. Three large gulps of the ice-cold liquid did nothing to eliminate the nasty aftertaste.

I grabbed an apple and took a huge bite, then turned and spied my younger brother, Danny. In his small pudgy hand, he held the sucker stick, and behind him stood my mother in her slippers, dressed only in a nightshirt. A horrified expression was plastered on her face.

Mom turned and screamed down the hallway toward her bedroom. “Vic, get out here quick!”

Seconds later, my dad appeared, half asleep, dressed only in his white boxers and a tee-shirt.

“Danny ate the sucker with the Taro Ant Poison on it!” she shrieked.

On our avocado green wall phone, my dad made a frantic call to our family doctor.

“Dr. Zawarski says we have to make him throw up before the poison gets into his bloodstream!” he yelled, the phone still gripped tightly in his hand.

I watched in horror as Danny, completely wrapped up in Dad’s massive arms, kicked and squirmed as Mom tried in vain to force soapy water down his throat. The soapy water went everywhere but where it was supposed to go. Mom gave up when she slipped and ended up on the wet linoleum floor.

Tears streamed down Danny’s cheeks as he cried out, “I didn’t eat it! Why won’t anyone believe me?”

By this time, everyone in the house was now awake. My brothers and sisters stared wide-eyed into the kitchen doorway at what was happening.

I stood speechless, unable to move much less rescue my brother.

When the soapy water failed to work, my parents went to Plan B. Mom, clothed only in her wet night shirt, ran next door, while Dad disappeared back down the hallway and reappeared in the same clothes he had worn the night before.

Red-faced and breathing hard, Mom burst in through the back door. “Kids, Mrs. Taski will be over shortly to watch you until we get back,” she said, then ran towards her bedroom.

Danny, still in his wet Snoopy pajamas, was scooped up by Dad and tossed into the front seat of our Ford station wagon. Seconds later, my parents raced down the street.

I looked at the mess that had once been our immaculate kitchen. I picked the sucker stick up off the wet floor and slipped it into the pocket of my pajamas. Was I trying to hide the evidence? Heck yes!

My other brothers and sisters, clueless, asked, “What happened?”

I lied. “Mom saw Danny eating the sucker with the Taro Ant Poison on it, and she and Dad tried to get him to throw it up. I guess they’re taking him to the doctor to get a shot.”

In my young mind, if you got sick, the doctor gave you a shot, and you got better. A shot would hurt, but it wouldn’t kill my brother.

Hours later, Dad carried in, limp as a dishrag, my brother Danny. Stunned, we all watched as he gently laid Danny down on his bed and tucked a blanket around him.

What kind of shot could do this to him?

“They had to pump Danny’s stomach, but the doctor says he will be okay in a day or two,” Mom said. She sat on the side of his bed and tenderly stroked Danny’s hair.

I said nothing. I was scared. No way I wanted to go through what Danny just had. In my room, I pulled out the cigar box my dad had given me. It held my baseball card collection and my life savings of $18.27. I hid the sucker stick between two packs of cards.

I didn’t sleep that night. I stared up at the dark ceiling and waited to die. I knew I deserved whatever happened to me after what I had put my little brother through.

Only...I didn’t die. And life went back to normal.

Over the next twenty-five years, I kept my good luck charm close. It made sure I got home safely when I stupidly drove after drinking too much in college. When I joined the Marines and was shipped to Vietnam, I slit the inside liner of my right boot and slipped it in there for safekeeping. That is where it stayed the entire year I was over there.

Years later, when I woke up in an oxygen tent, after an asthma attack, I sent my wife home to get me my good luck charm, just in case.

It’s been fifty-years since that fateful day. That sucker stick and a yellowing letter of apology to my brother Danny are still safely tucked away in that old cigar box. Maybe when I die, I will leave both items to him, if for no other reason than to ease my conscience. Though with luck, that won’t happen anytime soon. With the sucker stick by my side, I might just truly be invincible.