Fireworks and fire ants

Since I'm sure nobody wants to hear about the time I ate cabbage soup, or the time my buddy flipped my golf cart or the time I got broadsided at 65 miles-an-hour, rolled my truck three times and landed upside-down in a ditch, I won't tell you about those just yet.
I will tell you about something a little less life-threatening, but almost as memorable.
I learned yet another valuable lesson recently.
Most of the time change is good, but some things are better left alone.
July Fourth is a big deal in my family. Like most of you probably do, we have certain traditions. I have been taking part in said traditions since six months before I was born, (Yes, I said six. I got tired of being curled up in a belly all day, so I jumped the gun a little) and I look forward to them every year.
If you could see me, you'd probably guess right off the bat that one of our traditions involves eating, and you'd be right. Every year, our family and friends gather at Nana and Paw-paw's pool house and enjoy an Independence Day meal. Then we hit the pool just long enough to require a whole bottle of Aloe Vera to put out the fire on our skin before the annual Freedom Fest fireworks show at Fort Rucker starts.
You can set your watch to my family perched on a hillside in the backyard, looking up at the sky and unleashing a veritable chorus of "Ooohh"s and "Aaahh"s every time there's a big, smiley-faced firecracker.
This happens every year, without fail. Once we even had bleachers.
This year, however, was different.
For the first time in my twenty-three years, somebody at Fort Rucker decided to throw America's birthday party a day early, and Freedom Fest was held on the third of July instead of the Fourth. For the life of me I still can't figure out why they did that, but I should have known it wouldn't lead to anything good.
Friday rolled around, and, like proud Americans filled with unbridled patriotism, we all pretended it was the Fourth while we ate hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken and sausage and tried to forget it was only the third.
I was so upset at Fort Rucker for moving the Fourth to the third, I elected not to swim and sat inside the pool house with the women, who were busily cleaning out the refrigerator.
Normally, any time the refrigerator is open and stuff is being taken from it, I am a happy man. When the barbecue sauce is sharing a shelf with a batch of penicillin, some mold that resembles a small Chia Pet and mayonnaise with hair longer than Lily Munster's, even I draw the line.
I did see a jar of chocolate chips sitting on the table, and it cheered me up a little -- until I tasted the chips and realized they came out of the same refrigerator and were, in fact, older than Lily Munster.
I bolted out the door faster than a scalded jackrabbit, spat out the tainted chocolate chips and sat by the pool and listened to Daddy try to read a hilarious e-mail about a guy who got his wife a pocket-taser for their anniversary until it was announced we would say the blessing and eat.
After I had my fill, I went back out by the pool. It wasn't long before I grew tired of watching everyone else have fun and decided to go home and get my bathing suit.
This seemingly insignificant task turned out to be more than I bargained for because someone cleaned the house and moved my bathing suit from it's ordained spot on the floor of the bathroom. When I finally finished ransacking the house in search of a suitable replacement for my bathing suit, thirty minutes had passed and Mama's laundry room looked like the Tasmanian Devil had taken up residence in it.
I shut the door and hoped she wouldn't notice until I had successfully acquired a passport and left the country, then put on my swimming shoes and returned to my grandparents' house.
I swam for all of ten minutes before everyone went to grab a seat on the hill, despite the fact the fireworks could have been easily viewed from the deep end of the pool.
I sat my chair up on the left end of the front row and prepared to watch the show, which -- per usual manner -- started ten minutes late.
I was just beginning to "Oooohh" and "Aaahhh" on key when half the fire ants in Southeast Alabama decided to crawl into a hole in my swimming shoe and make a meal out of my left big toe.
Now, I know God has a reason, purpose and plan for everything, but I sure wish He'd clue me in on what He was thinking when He made fire ants. I hate fire ants, and I'm pretty sure they'd be an effective form of torture if we ever come across Bin-Laden.
I danced a jig trying to get those ants out of my shoe. I even hit them with my cane once or twice, but all I did was hurt myself while they gnawed my big toe until they eventually exploded, at which time the remaining half of the fire-ant population entered my shoe. The second wave finished off my toe and half my foot before I finally cleared them out in time for the grand finale.
I enjoyed the fireworks as much as one can when he's got ants in his shoes, but I didn't get to enjoy the finale.
Nobody did.
The finale was supposed to be a barrage of fireworks so colorfully amazing they would be almost impossible to top next year.
We all heard the booms, but nobody saw what happened until we picked up the paper the next morning.
Apparently the fireworks, which were supposed to ascend halfway to Heaven before bursting forth in all their colorful-finale glory, went sideways into a parking lot across the street.
Amazingly, only seven people were hurt, and only three of them needed a band-aid.
For my sake -- and for the sake of those poor, unfortunate souls who may choose to watch from the celebration from the parking lot -- I hope the folks at Fort Rucker move America's birthday party back to America's birthday.
If not, I hope they get a shoe full of fire ants.


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Books with no pages

I'm doing this so Mama Kat doesn't yell at me for not doing my homework for fun.
Here are some book titles that were scrapped seconds after I thought of them and realized somebody will make real reality TV and Brussels sprouts that taste good before I'd be able to come up with the first page.

Skinny Fat Man
This one came about early one morning when, somehow, despite being awake before the roosters, I was in a good mood. The premise revolved around a main character who, by sudden epiphany, came to the realization that his image could be manipulated with his own mind, and was not dependent upon the way others viewed him - as he previously thought. He was at once a six-foot-two specimen of a man with a money tree in his back yard and a stomach upon which he could, and sometimes did, wash his clothes.
Women everywhere fell at his feet, and they did so because of his rugged charm and irresistible personality, not because of the money tree in his yard. He was walking on air, and nothing could bring him down.
Suddenly, without warning, something happened that caused both his journey to the top of the world and my journey to the top of the best-seller list to come to an abrupt end.
I went and walked by the mirror.

How to Understand a Yankee
I was recently thinking about a vacation my family took to Pennsylvania when I was in the fifth grade.
One particular conversation I remember having with a lady I'll call Yankee Waitress inspired me to write a guide to help Southerners overcome the language barrier they're sure to encounter once they cross the Mason-Dixon line.
This very same conversation, which I have included below, served to remind me the reason such a helpful book has not yet been written is the fact it simply cannot be done.
Yankee Waitress:" Whatwouldyouliketodrink?"
Fifth-Grade Me: "Ma'am?"
(At this point, Yankee Waitress appeared slightly offended and shocked that Fifth-Grade Me had called her ma'am. Apparently, she thought I was calling her old.)
YW: "Whatwouldyouliketodrinksir?"
FGM: "Ma'am?"
(Now Yankee Waitress was losing patience. Fifth-Grade Me knew this because Mama had lost her patience with him before. He also new such circumstances rarely turned out good for him, so he panicked. Straining to remember the standard order of questions asked every time he sat down at a restaurant in Alabama, Fifth-Grade Me took a shot in the dark.)
FGM: "Do y'all have sweet tea?"
YW: "BAHAHAHAHAHA. Whatisthat? Wehavesodapop."
FGM:"Ma'am?"
YW: "Isaidwehavesodapop."
(Having never heard of a drink called Sodapop before, Fifth-Grade Me said the only thing he could think of.)
FGM: "No thank you, ma'am. Can you please bring me a Coke?"

Front Row Baptist
It is a well-known fact in Baptist churches that nobody is allowed to sit on the front pew.
Years ago, somebody on the Committee Formed on Behalf of the Pews Committee made a motion in business meeting that sitting on the front pew should be outlawed.
After much arguing discussion about having always sat on the front pews before, the motion finally carried.
It was put into the doctrine and by-laws at the next National Baptist Convention of America meeting, and nobody has sat on front pew since, for fear they would incur Heaven's wrath and fire and brimstone would rain down upon them.
In fact, we no longer sit on the first three pews.
Those are now roped off as a splash zone, you know, in case the preacher gets riled.
If you accidentally sit on one of them, you'd better move back fast - or grab an umbrella.
We have become so accustomed to the back row we even go to sleep during the sermon sometimes, usually at the moment the preacher stops holding our attention and starts sounding like Charlie Brown's teacher.
Heck, we might not even come without the promise of dinner on the grounds, complete with fried chicken and biscuits.
We back-row Baptists go ballistic if we're not out of there by noon so we can beat the Methodists to the buffet and still get home in time to catch the race and the Braves' game.
Hey, somebody should put that in the by-laws.




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Fire up the DeLorean

It's Wednesday again, and this week's writers' workshop has me thinking of a simpler time when my biggest problems were multiplication tables. It was the best of times without the worst, and I can't wait to get back. Climb in, sit back and hold on because, in the words of Dr. Emmett Brown, "If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits eighty-eight miles per hour... you're gonna see some serious --"
Here we are, in about 1990. That's Pap-paw, opening the camper on his brown pickup truck and shoving two of his expertly-rigged fishing poles in until the end of the rods strike the truck bed with a thud. He's packed the long poles this time, so he leaves the camper window ajar while the corks sway in the gentle afternoon breeze. I haven't seen him since he died of pancreatic cancer in August of 1993, but he looks just like I remember, healthy and smiling.
That high-pitched squeal you hear is five-year-old me, relaxing in the front seat, singing along with the Oak Ridge Boys' "Elvira" and waiting anxiously to hit the road. In a minute, Pap-paw will chuckle at my feeble attempt to hit the low, rumbling, "Giddy Up, Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow" line at the end of the chorus.
Told you.
He'd be proud to know I can occasionally hit it now.
He'll manage to compose himself before long, and holler a short goodbye to Mam-maw, who's perched on the doorstep waving.
By the time we pull up at the lake Pap-paw and I have listened to the whole Oak Ridge Boys tape, and I've asked him 200 questions like, "How come you ain't got no hair on the top of your head?", "Did you ever spank Mama when she was a kid?" and "Can I have another hard candy?"
Hard candy was the name we gave Werther's Original caramels, and I still say they're in a deadlock with M&Ms for best candy ever.
I'm still pouring a never-ending stream of questions from my sugar-rushed brain while he's unfolding two lawn chairs and setting them under a big oak tree. He pops the top on a Dr. Pepper, then hands me a can.
I pull at the stubborn tab for a while before he chuckles and opens the can on the first try, despite his arthritis.
"Can I have my pole now?" My question echoes over the still water. "I'm gonna catch me a biiiiiggg one."
The more my hands spread out the louder he chuckles, until soon he's laughing.
"Here, Case," is all he can manage after he throws my line in the water.
"I bet I can make them ripples on the water again."
The reel-and-rod shakes in my small hand, causing the cork to bob and drift off to the left, leaving a small wake behind it.
"Hush, son, or you'll scare the fish off. Reel it in, and I'll put you on my best fish-catchin' spot," Pap-paw's voice is barely above a whisper, and he's no doubt regretting his decision to let me hold the Werther's bag. "You're gonna catch that big 'un right here."
He's right, as usual.
Soon after my cork hits the water, it begins to bob and sway again -- and this time I'm not the cause.
"Pap-paw, he's bitin' it!"
My voice cracks with an excitement I can't contain.
"I'm gettin' a bite!"
"Set the --," he stops short when he realizes I probably have no idea what "set the hook" means. "Yank it to China, and reel him in!"
The words have scarcely left his lips when the water parts, and the biggest thing my young eyes have ever seen breaks the surface.
Sheer terror is etched on my face.
In an instant, my reel-and-rod is sailing through the air, I'm running as fast as my light-up LA-Gear sneakers will carry me, and screaming the only words that I could force from my mouth.
"It's an ALLIGATOR!"
Suddenly, Pap-paw is beyond composure.
Slumped against a tree and laughing as louder than a pack of overgrown hyenas, he struggles to steady himself when I finally reached him and hid behind his back.
"Pap-paw, help! An alligator ate my cricket!"
He wipes his eyes just enough to see through his still-falling tears, and notices my pole slipping down the bank toward the water, towed by the weight of what he knows is a bass.
"That... ain't no... alligator, son," he manages the broken phrases through the increasing volume of his laughter. "That's a big ol' bass, and he just stood up on his tail 'cause you hooked him so good."
Once I gather the courage to approach him, and what part of me still believes is a huge boy-eating monster, Pap-paw hands me my pole and the widest grin I have ever seen stretches across his wise, caring face.
"Reel, Casey! Reel him in, son, reel him in," he yells loudly until he's out of breath.
There -- on the bank, in the shade of the oak tree beside a can of Dr. Pepper that spilled during all the action -- I'm reeling faster than anyone has ever reeled, or ever will.
Ten minutes later, I'm tuckered out.
The monster is too, and Pap-paw -- still laughing harder by the minute -- approaches the water, grabs my line and tows the large bass to the bank.
"Lookey there, Casey, that fish is big. We'll have to weigh him."
He makes a quick trip to his tackle box and returns with his fish scale.
"Five pounds, eight ounces," he says after removing the fish from the scale.
"I told you I was gonna catch a BIG one! Can we keep him?"
"Yeah, will keep him, son," Pap-paw's reply can't hide the smile overtaking his face.
"That's the biggest fish I ever seen, Pap-paw. What are you laughin' at?"
"I'm just waitin' to get home so I can tell your Mam-maw and your Mama and Daddy you caught a big ol' alligator fish," he erupts in a fit of laughter then, and doesn't stop until we pull in the driveway.
When I climb out of the truck, I'm the happiest boy alive.
I've been on a fishing trip with Pap-paw, caught the biggest alligator fish I'd ever seen and eaten the whole bag of hard candy on the way home. Read more!

The camping trip from Well, you know...

Per the weekly writing assignment from Mama Kat, I have decided to address the issue of camping, for no other reason than I've done my share of it. Oh, and something crazy always seems to happen when I go. I've selected one of my most memorable excursions to share with you, so read on if you dare.
I grew up in a little town, you know, the kind where your neighbor across the street still dries the clothes on a line so you can watch them flap in the breeze while you sit in the front porch rocking chair enjoying an RC Cola and a moon pie. We don't have the luxuries most towns do when it comes to entertainment, unless we drive the 10 miles to town, so we became expert self-entertainers. My friends and I would drop everything and decide to shoot cans in the yard, take a fishing trip or anything else we could do to pass the time.
Sometimes, we decided to go camping. This was, after all, the idea that suited us best, because we had the perfect camp spot -- as long as it wasn't hunting season. The campsite, as it came to be known, was in a secret location on a plot of land called "The Flats." It had everything. You couldn't get to it without going into a heavily-wooded area, and you were bound to get lost if you didn't know the right trail to take. Only a select few are privy to its exact location and, to this day, when we take people there we make them close their eyes, lest they reveal our hiding place to the world.
The first ill-fated trip came about as a result of sheer, unadulterated boredom.
Two of my friends and I planned the trip in about 10 minutes, sped to Wal-Mart to buy the essential items such as hot dogs and lighter fluid, grabbed three tents and headed for the campsite.
Dusk was already fast approaching when we arrived, so we had to hurry to set up camp before the last remaining daylight flickered away. It took my friends all of 10 minutes to set up their single-person tents, but I had neglected to mention one minor detail. My tent boasted three rooms, and it was all mine. It took a while to set it up, but, when it finally stood on its own, it was nothing short of spectacular. We're talking the Taj Mahal of tents. My friends were insanely jealous of my palace abode, and I relished in it. We lit our campfire, ate our hot dogs and enjoyed the night air until we began to get sleepy. We coated out tents in waterproof spray, then used the rest of it to make the fire blow up. When it came time to turn in for the night, I ducked in my palace tent, unzipped the walls between the rooms, zipped up the door and relaxed in the huge amount of space I had. Halfway through the night I began to feel thankful for the large dose of spray I had applied earlier, because a gentle rain trickled down on the tent and its soothing melody soon lulled me to sleep.
When I awakened a short time later, I sensed something wasn't right. My suspicions were confirmed when I opened my mouth to breathe and nearly drowned. Apparently, I had either (A) missed some spots in my application of the waterproof spray, or(B) I received a faulty product(I tend to stress option B when I tell this story in person). Either way, when I rolled over and tried to rid myself of the waterfall that found its way into my mouth, I noticed the roof was sagging so that it nearly touched my nose, and, as if that weren't bad enough, torrents of rain flooded in through the faltering side walls.
When daylight finally arrived, I quickly swam crawled to the entrance and tried to escape what had now become more of an aquarium than a tent. I soon found my escape attempt impossible, however, because of a stubborn door-zipper that wouldn't budge, no matter how many times I cussed at it.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, one of my buddies heard my commotion and came to the rescue. Ordinarily, I would have laughed my head off at him because, upon hearing the racket coming from the Taj Mahal, he uprooted his tent and waddled over like a turtle coming out of its shell.
I was in no mood for laughter, but this was not the case with him.
He unzipped the door, and, upon finding me wading to meet him, erupted in a fit of laughter loud enough to be heard three counties over. His laughter eventually awakened my other friend, who promptly joined in the chorus after witnessing me come up for air on the way out of the tent.
They still haven't stopped laughing about that day, and, needless to say, the Taj Mahal hasn't made another trip.

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