I was just gazing at a
early birthday gift sent to me by Karma
(who you can blame for me inflicting
these stories on you) and it caused some memories to.. well I suppose
explode would be an appropriate word… into my thoughts. All the rest of you
just send cash.
Mikie was my best friend during my formative years and contributed to many
of my “learning experiences“. He missed out on the black powder gun that JD
and I made, but was considered an accessory on the second one and I have
posted about our first “hand-crafted” canoe in a earlier story on redneckin.
Somehow, over the years, he has become semi-computer literate. Heck, we
skipped so much school to go fishing and hunting that I’m still amazed
either of us can read. I emailed him a copy of that story. He said he
enjoyed it, but if I ever used his old nickname “booger” again he would hold
me down and pull a few out of my nose using a pair of vice grips. Since he
has five inches and a hundred and ten pounds on me, I agreed.
Our experiences with fireworks involved fishing as much as general noise
making and dog harassment. Although banning them has probably saved the rest
of my fingers from fast fuses, I really miss the days of the M-80's, TNT's
and Cherry Bombs with their waterproof fuses and 1/4 stick equivalency.
Since then, all the fun has gone out of my freshwater fishing.
But at the time, they were available, if illegal. And they were not only
enjoyable, but made for productive fishing. It would be years before the
mere legality of something played any part in whether I did it or not.
We would take our collection of whatever the fireworks stand was selling out
the back door and tape small rocks to each one. This supplied not only the
negative buoyancy needed, but as an added bonus, a small amount of shrapnel.
You didn’t want a lot of shrapnel in case of the aforementioned fast fuse.
Nothing ruined your day faster than having to pick gravel out of your hide.
Unless it was getting hold of the business end of a snapping turtle while
tailing catfish. We would light the miniature sticks of dynamite and drop
them into whatever hidden pocket we were “fishing” and scoop up the fish
that floated to the surface with a dip net. Our catch would be a mixed bag
of fish, eels, and the occasional snake or turtle.
One day we were wading and fishing a series of deep pockets around a old
mill dam hidden back in the woods behind some houses. You locals know where
I’m talking about- the creek that flows behind the old high school off of
Stadium Drive. It was a favorite spot for all the younger teens in the area
to gather and swim, fish, smoke and do most of the things we did that it was
better our parents didn‘t know about. The day was hot and we were dreading
the walk home, especially after the long hike to the firecracker stand.
Mikie and I had a couple that exploded with deafening loudness when a errant
pitch landed the firecracker on the bank or sand bars instead of being
muffled by the water, so we should have been better prepared for part of
what followed.
As we topped the hill, heading home, while smoking one from our stash of
Swisher Sweets, we practically walked into the side of one of Phenix City’s
patrol cars driven by one of PC’s finest, my next door neighbor, Grubby
Jackson. Grubby had large apple shaped cheeks from the half bag of Beechnut
he perennially kept in his mouth and was no stranger to my “learning
experiences, both as a neighbor and in his official capacity. I quickly
dropped the paper bag containing the Cherry Bombs between Mikie and me where
I could kick it under the car if Grubby decided to get out. That was a
decidedly unlikely event since Grubby was semi permanently attached to the
seat and would have no problem finding us if we did decide to run. Mikie,
who had just taken a long pull on the small cigar, was holding his breath.
He dropped the little cigar and tried to do a little drop kick to get it out
of sight . Unknown to either of us, it evidently bounced off the side of the
car and landed on top of the paper bag. It began to smolder it’s way in.
Grubby asked “What you boys been up to?” spiting a stream of brown liquid to
the other side of me while studying Mikie’s slowly purpling face. The
occasional stream of tobacco juice helped to hold me in place, much like a
linebacker cutting off the pitch man.. I sized up the situation quickly and
knew that the best lie was partially the truth, so I replied “We been
fishing, see! “ and thrust the stringer of fish at the window. Grubby didn’t
miss a beat or anything else for that matter. Recoiling from the sunbaked
catch, he never took his eye’s off Mikies now rapidly purpling face as he
asked “Where’s you boy’s fishing poles?” as another stream of tobacco juice
splattered the dusty ground at my side. I was stunned. Asking me to come up
with a partial truth and a lie in rapid succession was greater than my under
developed ability in the fine art of obscuring the truth could handle. After
all, I wasn’t old enough to be a Democrat yet.
At this point, Mikie with his eye’s bulging out of his mottled face began to
choke and lowered his head below window level as he hacked out the
strangling smoke. Mikie saw the bag that was now beginning to burn and
reached to throw it down the hill. Grubby thinking Mikie might be trying to
pull a fast one started to get out of the patrol car. I, seeing Grubby
getting out, went with my original plan and kicked at the bag tearing it
from Mikie‘s grasp..
Everything went down hill at this point. Everything, but the smoldering bag.
Mikie dove for cover just as the first Cherry Bomb went off while Grubby was
half out of the car. Grubby and I froze, then the second one exploded at our
feet, spraying both of us with small pieces of rock and gravel. Not knowing
that the bag of firecrackers had caught fire, I was convinced that Grubby
had shot me. I collapsed and started rolling down the steep incline. The
glimpse I got of Grubby’s gaunt face indicated he thought someone had shot
both of us. Then several Cherry Bomb’s went off in rapid fire succession. I
turned rabbit then, breaking right then left at each supposed shot till I
dropped next to Mikie‘s hiding place and started frantically searching my
body for new holes.
Grubby rolled back into the car and out the other side. With his gun drawn
he crept around the side of car scanning from side to side trying to find
our assailants. He quickly spotted the burnt bag and several unexploded
cherry bombs laying on the ground where Mikie and I had been standing. He
stood up, holstered his gun and strode down the hill to where we thought we
were hid among the kudzu vines. Grubby grasped us firmly by our belts and
hauled us to the back of the patrol car.
The ride home was mostly in silence. We tried to apologize to Grubby in our
quavering 12 year old voices, but all he did was pin us in our seats with a
malevolent stare in between pulling the car over and retching out the door.
It was then we realized why his normally fat cheeks were so gaunt, He had
swallowed his chew when the first Cherry Bomb had exploded.
I’ll spare you the details of the scene at home except to say I couldn’t
tell whether the tears in 2’s eyes and the jerking of his shoulders as
Grubby told him what happened was from laughing or crying. I know which one
mine were.
