Tag Archives: kids

Humour

Indigestible

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The winter months of waiting were over. The package of fishing equipment had arrived at my friend’s house. It took many months, but as promised on the back of an “Incredible Hulk” comic book was the advertisement promising: 1001 Fishing Pack! Everything you needed to reel the big one in. Three rods, three reels, fishing line, hundreds of hooks, sinkers, lures, jig bodies and even jars of bait- minnows floating with frozen eyes in liquid. All for $9.99. Could there really be 1001 fishing items for that price? I didn’t believe the claims, after all along side of it was an ad for sea monkeys, dried in a package ready to be brought back to life! I was eager to see my friends face (let’s call him Ed). I was sure it was mostly junk and useless to true fishermen like us. To my dismay there was some good merchandise in the box, well worth the 10 bucks to a twelve and a thirteen year old. I’m still sure the dried sea monkeys were a scam.

Now that we had our fishing gear it was time to finish the plans for our trek across the two towns; Port Arthur and Fort William, then on to Chippewa Park. Our destination was about 10 kilometres outside of Fort William on the shores of Lake Superior. The bike ride alone would take all afternoon through the narrow streets in the hot June sun. A quick check: Bicycles – yes, sleeping bags – yes, the ten dollar package of fishing equipment – yes – and we were off! Some 30 kilometres from our houses to the park was a relatively short ride compared to a few others we had adventured on. It was only one night, no need to carry extra gear.

A quick swim in chilly Lake Superior to cool off upon arrival then it was time to put the gear together to go fishing. The park was quiet before the summer July rush, even the rides that accompanied the small zoo weren’t yet running until Canada Day. We walked along the sandy shoreline thick with reeds. A very good area for early large Northern Pike spawning and warming up from the frigid waters of Lake Superior. The water was crystal clear. The sandy beach littered with drift wood logs.

We had managed a few small fish each when I noticed Ed straining and grimacing trying to get off a snag. I yelled over, “Just get in the water and get it off the log. It’s not deep.” I could see the red and white dare devil lure moving away slowly. Ed was frantic. The log started to move slowly at first. For a few seconds I was puzzled. Then in the clear water I saw the large, wide eyes staring back at me from the reeds. A pike so big it looked like one of the many scattered dead wood logs along the grassy shoreline. “It’s huge, Ed! What are you going to do?!” I uttered.

The massive fish turned slowly, only slightly annoyed at Ed’s attempts to change its direction. Gaining speed the beast swam parallel to the shoreline. Ed started to trot, then jog. He was running out of line. The Pike stopped, turned, looked at Ed’s rod bent almost in a circle. It cracked the fiberglass rod under the strain. A quick S-shaped thrust of its tail, the fish stripped the gears of the rod. Then snapped the line in a long streaming run before disappearing into the depths of Lake Superior. Ed crashed backwards, his small young teenage body was no match for the biggest Northern Pike I had ever seen still to this day!

Ed was, of course, in shock. “How, why, what..?” barely able to speak he finally roared “Did you see the size of that fish?!”

“I did and it didn’t want any part of you.” I plopped down beside him. I calmed him down eventually, explaining that with his equipment plus the fact the fish looked like it weighed more than he did, catching such a prize would have been impossible.

I’m sure his dreams of “the one that got away” were interrupted by the crash of thunder and the downpour of rain. The huge thunderstorm soaked us each in our own sleeping bags while the middle of the campground became a wading pool. Two shivering and soaked boys braving the night without a tent, covered their heads and tried to sleep.

Drying our sleeping bags in the morning sun gave us time to fish before the trek home. I now know, after years of fishing, that big fish bite best before a thunderstorm. Ed did not ever see his monster fish again but he did bring in a nice 5 pound Northern Pike. It was the right size for eating and Ed was going to get his mother to cook it that very night. He was happy and eager; a fish and his tall tale to tell his family.

By the time we reached his house after another long bike ride, mainly uphill, on a hot June sunny day, the fish in his bicycle basket had dried up some. Ed insisted it could be salvaged. The whole family gathered around to watch Ed’s mother dissect the fish. She was from the old country and not afraid of a little blood and guts. “Let’s see what’s in the stomach,” I exclaimed pointing at the bulge.

Screaming and wailing, a hairy rodent protruded out of her first slice into the stomach. We ducked from her fillet knife as Ed’s mom flailed her arms around. Once the mayhem was over and Ed’s mother was sitting at the kitchen table safely no longer hyperventilating, an angry look came over her face. “Get it out of my kitchen!” She ordered him to get rid of the contents of the guts, muskrat and all! Poor Ed, his mother was in such a state, he had to throw out his prized catch too!

Written by Barnwood 57

Humour

No Dogs or Cats

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After weeks of whining I was finally going to get my first pet. My parents had said, “No dogs or cats. You have to take care of it. ” What can I get and what can this ten year old boy look after? I wandered through the pet store with my money jingling in my pocket. My first thoughts were of fish; nah, kind of boring just swimming of circles. My focus was now on the turtles. Three small green painted turtles, a glass bowl, water and a few rocks and I had my first pets.

The first day was fun, letting them crawl around, taking great care of their wellbeing. The first chocked to death on a piece of food. Carefully cutting the meat into smaller pieces, I was sure the other two were in good hands!

To my horror, the next morning, the second turtle had drowned. The precisely placed rocks had given way, trapping my turtle underneath. Poor guy. I recovered quickly. All my attention now on the remaining turtle.

So let’s see. The first one chokes to death, the next one drowns and the third… the third turtle was so traumatized with the recent events, watching his dear friends perish… the last of my little green pets committed suicide.

Rearranging the rocks that had entrapped turtle two, (I hadn’t had time to name any of them yet), had made it easy for turtle three to climb out and jump over the side. Splat on the kitchen floor all I heard.

Within three days all three pets had perished. Maybe Mom and Dad will let me get a hamster? But that’s another story…

By Barnwood

Humour, Uncategorized

Miscue

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The pool cue was hurled with direction and intent. As my two young siblings rounded the corner of the pool table, heading for the exit, screaming, I was visibly upset, ranting to the effect how could they have beaten me in a game of pool?! Once they were well past the target, I hurled the pool cue into the drywall…now before you judge me, let me finish…

I had saved up for a brand new Simpson Sears pool table. Made of wood, there were screws to adjust for warpage. The six pocket had a slight warp which played to my advantage.

I was seventeen, my siblings were eight and ten years my junior. Little sis was a happy girl, when she laughed she made a snork, snork sound, so I nick named her Snorky. I would chase her around the house as she screamed, laughed and inevitably snorked; my way of playing with my baby sister. Tall, cute and lanky for her age, she still needed books to stand on to hit the cue ball and make the shot. Little bro was the neighbourhood star, at least to the next door neighbour kids. My brother was the leader of a little gang of athletes that liked to play crocket and baseball on the front lawn. Two small Italian boys were in awe of my little bro’s athleticism. They were loyal followers ready for any games. Cleanliness was always forefront with these Italian boys. You could observe them washing their hair daily in mud puddles.

Through my adolescent brain, I had thought I could make their win in a pool game more realistic. I could beat them every time and this time I even set up the cue ball to their advantage. I had learned from the best. My old Uncle Setä used set up his stripes or solids in front of the pockets so that if I hit them I would pocket his ball. My plan was to let them win, have a tantrum, then they would have something huge to talk about. It was the last game of the day. A win would send them over the moon. After I lost the game, the pool cue was thrown into a portion of the drywall where a doorway opening was to be cut out to a new bathroom that this family of six desperately needed. A mini tantrum, some convincing acting so they can tell all their friends how they beat their big brother!

After my fake tantrum, I waited for them to pass as fast as their little legs could let them race around the end of the pool table. Then I threw the cue well past my panicked siblings and into the drywall. Not even close to a real threat. I was good at throwing things. From baseballs, footballs and later dart trophies would prove that. A dent from an accidental jumping pool ball in the drywall left a target. The dent, a little left of the centre provided a harmless target. Or so I thought.

I was an adolescent myself, clearly, not the best thinking here and they still children at seven and nine. This was long ago, forty years long ago. Why I write about this now is, well a few years ago this incident came up. My younger brother thought I was so angry that day that I threw the cue at them trying to injure. I explained my story, had a laugh and thought nothing else of it. Then just recently at my mother’s 85th birthday, somehow this story came out in conversation. My little sister, ten years my junior, thought I had intended to hit them. I tried to explain as best I could but am unsure of the results.

I had made this ill-conceived show of love and affection into thoughts of some evil, hateful brother. Of course I love them. They are the same flesh and blood. I could never hurt them nor ever did. I was stupid and careless. Now I wonder how much this incident, this lack of judgment on my part, has kept us apart. They remembered the event so vividly in their minds and how could they have known what was in mine? I love my brothers and sister. Be careful when they are young. A miss understanding can lead to a lifetime of regret.

Written by Barnwood

Humour, Uncategorized

The Last Jump

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There just isn’t enough. I had shoveled every snowflake into my drop zone. I’d convinced myself, that a three foot diameter snow pile was enough for the jump. Not an ordinary jump by any means. This had taken planning, all the training and of course the practice jumps. The success from the previous months of jumping off the highest places around neighbourhood had excited my 10 year old mind.

I loved high places. There was a sort of freedom, a joy and pride in being able to do things others couldn’t… or wouldn’t.

One great pleasure was walking along, well, on top of fences. With my balance and love of heights, the neighbourhood was easy pickings for a clever, sneaky, crab apple thief. Carrots too! I was small enough that when the neighbours by coming home early, I could hide amongst the potatoes. I got away with it, escaping with two big juicy orange carrots! I wasn’t greedy. Just take what you need and not a carrot more! Also a good thief always covers up his tracks; careful to fill the holes back up with dirt so I could visit again unsuspected.

Crab apples were more difficult. You could get spotted. I mean way up on a fence is, well, obvious.
Darkness and stealth was the key to a big pocket full of delicious crab apples.

Oh, but I have to tell you about my jump. The one from the summer of ‘67- it was flawless! Absolutely brilliant! And except for the rash…no harm. It was a clever plan.

Basements were dug; a new subdivision would lead to new friends and for now, summer fun. Huge piles of dirt had come from newly constructed basements holes. We would scamper up past the loose sand at the bottom to the clay soil mix at the top of the mound. We ran across the top. Jump. Hit the looser sand that absorbed impact, at about half way down. Then gently slide the rest of the way to the bottom.

One night after a few hours of jumping off the huge, at least twelve foot, dirt piles, I separated from the other neighbourhood children to go exploring. New houses had sprung up. “No one will see me”, I thought. I had to go look. The houses under construction were shells on top of cement basements. No doors or windows and no stairs! You could, however, stand on the landing.

Making my way around to back of the house to where I could shimmy into the basement. Entering and exiting without stairs would be easy; faster than anyone could walk up and down stairs even if they had them.

Not much to see in this basement except bags and bags of- I knew what it was, just like my Dad had used when he built our new house – insulation!
A piece of sheet metal was sharp enough to open all those big soft bags of cushioning.

“Heck, after I’m done they ought to thank me for saving them some time, for opening the bags, I mean.” I announced out loud, convincing myself, I spread all that insulation at the bottom of the landing. “This will be the softest landing ever!”

It worked out fantastic! I lost count of my jumps – could have hit a dozen or more. Wasn’t even tired yet from all the climbing back out but my desire for one more time gave way to itchy skin.

The cloud of fiberglass dust filled the basement. Trying to clean the pink insulation that had penetrated my clothes only made my skin itch more. Scratching all the way home the discomfort gave way to a big grin…time to plan the next jump.

My last jump was memorable. It was epic; bigger, flashier. If only I had been born during the internet days, instead of the late ‘50’s I could have been on Youtube! A child growing up in the 60’s was a time of exploring, no computer, little TV, a time to play! We all loved the outdoors. One had to be sick to be stuck indoors even on rainy days.

The memory of the red sore eyes and itchiness had mostly disappeared by the time the first snowstorm of the year. While, it really was a little more than a dusting, but it left enough to build the target.

Simple plan really, climb the side of the house, ease your way onto the rood, walk across the roof to the edge and jump into the pile of snow. I looked across the yard. Would there be enough? I could have waited. I should have waited. If only it had snowed more. No, I couldn’t wait. I had to go for it!

The climb up would be simple; the trellis was attached to the back siding. I had to be careful not to make a lot of noise. ‘Who’s on the roof?’ they might wonder. The timing had to be perfect.

Having finished supper and the rest of the family enjoying an episode of “Bonanza”, gave me a window of opportunity. My parents watched as I scrapped the front lawn down to the roots. Did they ever wonder what I was up to? Nah, what parent doesn’t like seeing a kid shovel snow, even when it’s the lawn and not the driveway!

Being agile, I was right about the climb up being easy. I had walked around the perimeter of many roofs. Now, I figure, that Dad’s was a 6/12 pitch. Not as steep as some I climbed on. It was a challenge of balance. Not much different than the warped wooden fences I frequently traveled along.

Snow made the roof slick and crunchy. Not to worry; any noise I make will get covered by Hoss Cartwright’s six shooter. I went straight across. “Too slippery for walking along the edge tonight,” I decided.

When I got into position, I was surprised how small the target was from above. The cold winters’ night had no wind. Yet I was a little teeny, tiny bit nervous – as teeny, tiny as the pile of snow looked from up here. No. There was no going back now. I was not afraid of anything. But the jump had to be spot on.

The edge had a sheen of ice on the grey asphalt shingles. Balancing on the edge was tricky. “Cannot touch the gutter,” I thought. “I need to be as close as I can to get the maximum distance.”

I accelerated quickly upward at first. A swan dive, then ready for impact. On the way down – for a second – no a fraction of a second, I knew that the little slip I felt my left foot make, had thrown off my young, thin body off course.

Opening my eyes, after all the stars cleared up from my brain; I saw beside me my pile of snow. Untouched. My head was throbbing. Probable concussion…but nothing was broken! I got up after a few minutes; I didn’t want to freeze and be found dead on the lawn.

All I remember is staggering around the front yard for the longest time. No one asked what I was doing holding my head staggering around. My parents never did. Even though they saw me circling about. Guess they didn’t hear the thud. The neighbours never asked what I was doing. However, I did get a few strange looks after from the neighbours who lived across the street. Gratefully, I escaped with only a headache.

The big question is did I learn my lesson? Yes. Most definitely, yes, I learned a very valuable lesson that day:

Do not jump off a roof top unless
you have a lot of snow!

Written by Barnwood

http://www.soyouthinkthatsfunny.com