Many in my family have asked me to write a book. I like to write. I share stories with family members to hopefully make them laugh and remember how much fun we had, even though we didn't have any money.
This is one of those. I think the statute of limitations has passed, so I am copying it here in hopes it makes a few of you laugh. It is a true story of four mischievous kids who deserved far more beatings than we received, and we received a good many of them.
I've sat on this one for 20 years and it was almost deleted from an old hard drive this morning as I was cleaning up computers.
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Boredom is an evil in the lives of young boys. An evil that causes them to act upon our imaginations, very vivid imaginations, at that. If not for boredom, the number of young boys in trouble with be greatly diminished.
My great-grandmother subscribed to this “no idle time” theory, and as such, decided it was best that she work us for hours on end, lest our summer visit be one of boredom-induced transgressions. When under her supervision, we tired early, and our minds had little time to wonder.
Yet it was in the yoke of weeding her four-acre garden that we had time to talk and plan. Plan we did. Plan things that in today’s world would have resulted in lifetime imprisonment, even for a minor and surely a visit by family services to remove us from the homes of our unsuspecting parents.
Most plans involved our BB guns, fireworks, homemade go-carts, or other boyhood pleasures filled with a good deal of danger and high risk of injury. Rare was the occasion that such planning would be done without the input of all of us.
“All of us” comprised of Uncle Jimmer, Cousin Robin, Uncle Boog, and me. I was the youngest of our troop. Jimmer, or Gregory James as stated on his birth certificate, was my mother’s youngest brother, a year older than me. Robin, my cousin, was the first of my generation, being the oldest son of my mom’s oldest brother, was two years older than me. Boog, really Dave, was Mom’s second youngest brother, was three years my senior.
We spent our summers trapping minnows, picking night crawlers, and any other fishing related activity that could raise funds for our addiction to fishing equipment. For kids aged eight to eleven, our tackle boxes were the envy of most the seasoned fishermen of our town. Good money was earned doing these tasks, but it still left for much spare time for our minds to devise the grandest of ideas.
Back to grandma’s garden.
It was this extremely hot day that we had spent the afternoon plucking weeds and picking veggies for canning, when we hatched the greatest of our childhood plans. A plan that would make us the heroes of the neighborhood kids in Big Falls, our small town of 526 Scandinavian citizens.
It was only recently that grandma had acquired a TV, and last night we watched the 1966 western, “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly,” on her new RCA console model. Anyone who has viewed that classic Clint Eastwood flick was mesmerized by the train bridge scene. Or at least young boys were.
Hopping trains and blowing up things with dynamite was more imagination fodder than should be provided to the minds of youngsters with our advanced training in weapons and explosives. And given the current popularity of “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” it seemed that with a little training, and a train bridge explosion, we would soon be competing for the roles held by Robert Redford and Paul Newman.
That day in the garden, we decided that we would carry out a plan surely to get the attention of Butch, Sundance, the local police, and the Great Northern railroad company. Would it be possible to blow up the tracks and train bridge where it crossed the Big Fork River, just north of our little hamlet?
We intended to find out.
After all, we had seen this stuff on TV, and no one had ever been hurt. It was great fun and seemed to be quite harmless. What notoriety it would gain for us among the rival youth groups laying claim to the calm streets of Big Falls, with whom we competed with for fort locations and special minnow trapping sites. Being the younger of the "Kid Clans" in our town, we had to do something beyond the norm to catapult us to the top of the “fearless” list.
This is one of those. I think the statute of limitations has passed, so I am copying it here in hopes it makes a few of you laugh. It is a true story of four mischievous kids who deserved far more beatings than we received, and we received a good many of them.
I've sat on this one for 20 years and it was almost deleted from an old hard drive this morning as I was cleaning up computers.
***********************************************************************************************************
Fire in the Hole!
Boredom is an evil in the lives of young boys. An evil that causes them to act upon our imaginations, very vivid imaginations, at that. If not for boredom, the number of young boys in trouble with be greatly diminished.
My great-grandmother subscribed to this “no idle time” theory, and as such, decided it was best that she work us for hours on end, lest our summer visit be one of boredom-induced transgressions. When under her supervision, we tired early, and our minds had little time to wonder.
Yet it was in the yoke of weeding her four-acre garden that we had time to talk and plan. Plan we did. Plan things that in today’s world would have resulted in lifetime imprisonment, even for a minor and surely a visit by family services to remove us from the homes of our unsuspecting parents.
Most plans involved our BB guns, fireworks, homemade go-carts, or other boyhood pleasures filled with a good deal of danger and high risk of injury. Rare was the occasion that such planning would be done without the input of all of us.
“All of us” comprised of Uncle Jimmer, Cousin Robin, Uncle Boog, and me. I was the youngest of our troop. Jimmer, or Gregory James as stated on his birth certificate, was my mother’s youngest brother, a year older than me. Robin, my cousin, was the first of my generation, being the oldest son of my mom’s oldest brother, was two years older than me. Boog, really Dave, was Mom’s second youngest brother, was three years my senior.
We spent our summers trapping minnows, picking night crawlers, and any other fishing related activity that could raise funds for our addiction to fishing equipment. For kids aged eight to eleven, our tackle boxes were the envy of most the seasoned fishermen of our town. Good money was earned doing these tasks, but it still left for much spare time for our minds to devise the grandest of ideas.
Back to grandma’s garden.
It was this extremely hot day that we had spent the afternoon plucking weeds and picking veggies for canning, when we hatched the greatest of our childhood plans. A plan that would make us the heroes of the neighborhood kids in Big Falls, our small town of 526 Scandinavian citizens.
It was only recently that grandma had acquired a TV, and last night we watched the 1966 western, “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly,” on her new RCA console model. Anyone who has viewed that classic Clint Eastwood flick was mesmerized by the train bridge scene. Or at least young boys were.
Hopping trains and blowing up things with dynamite was more imagination fodder than should be provided to the minds of youngsters with our advanced training in weapons and explosives. And given the current popularity of “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” it seemed that with a little training, and a train bridge explosion, we would soon be competing for the roles held by Robert Redford and Paul Newman.
That day in the garden, we decided that we would carry out a plan surely to get the attention of Butch, Sundance, the local police, and the Great Northern railroad company. Would it be possible to blow up the tracks and train bridge where it crossed the Big Fork River, just north of our little hamlet?
We intended to find out.
After all, we had seen this stuff on TV, and no one had ever been hurt. It was great fun and seemed to be quite harmless. What notoriety it would gain for us among the rival youth groups laying claim to the calm streets of Big Falls, with whom we competed with for fort locations and special minnow trapping sites. Being the younger of the "Kid Clans" in our town, we had to do something beyond the norm to catapult us to the top of the “fearless” list.
