"The Great Tennis Ball Caper - Part One"

When I was a young boy, and playing over at Harv's and Bear’s (two kids who lived across the street from me and my brother), I once had this wonderful idea of how fun it might be to dip a tennis ball in gasoline, light in on fire, and then kick it around the yard.  And it really was quite fun as I watched the tennis ball bounce around, leaving in its wake these really nifty little piles of fire.  Soon, several of the neighborhood kids got involved, and, in a matter of just a few moments, I think things got a little out of hand.

I remember Harv's and Bear’s mom stepping out the front door of their house (while we were busily engaged in our little experiment in empirical physics), and saying something like, “Harv…whudareyoudoing?”  I don’t remember Harv’s answer, but, almost before she’d gotten her first question out, though, I think the five gallon bucket of gasoline that was on fire caught her eye.  Turning to Bear, she then asked, “Who lit that bucket on fire?” To which Bear responded, still holding the lighter in his hand, “Not me!  Not me!”  I am still amazed to this day how truthful we all were as kids, you know?  It’s just astounding how completely angelic we all were.  Anyway, at this point, Mrs. Evans directed that all fires be put out, that Harv and Bear come inside, and that the rest of us all go home.  Ok.  No harm done.  And so I went home.

At the bus stop the following morning, I learned from Harv and Bear that, except for going to school and church (their dad was the preacher at their church), they were restricted to the neighborhood for something like the next month.  Actually, after a couple of days, I think the term was reduced to one week (or it was over—I can’t remember).  As of that morning, though, it seemed that I had, quite miraculously, skirted the whole punishment thing, and I was really beginning to feel quite pleased with myself given that all of this had been my idea in the first place.  What’s that old saying?  Pride comes before…?  Well, by the time I got home from school that afternoon, let’s just say that Humpty Dumpty experienced a pretty great fall.  After learning that my parents now knew of what had, for the previous 24 hours, been an event unknown to them—and spoken of elsewhere in only hushed and reverent tones, I learned additionally that I would be spending the next week in my room.  And, in case you're wondering (which, of course, you are :0) ), my room was NOT particularly conducive to such things, for I did not possess any of the following provisions:  (1) a TV; (2) a stereo; or (3) video games.  I did, however, have in my possession the following RETs (Restriction Coping EquipmenT)--pronounced retz--to help me cope with such events (which, for reasons quite unbeknownst to me, were beginning to occur with more and more regularity during those days):  (A) a base station CB radio (which, at times, came in quite handy with coordinating escapes from the San Quintin of my room ); (B) a rope; (C) a large window; and (D) a sturdy bed, to which I could tie item “Ret B” which, in turn, enabled easy escape from my second-story bedroom through item “Ret C”.  But I digress…

Back to just the whole getting into trouble she-bang thing.  It seems that Mrs. Dirge (and I am NOT kidding about the name) noticed what had been going on next door (at Harv's and Bear’s) the previous day and felt that it would be a very kind gesture if she were to walk over to my house and very politely inform my parents of some of the scientific activities in which their son had been so intensely engaged recently.  Yep….she tattled on me.  But that’s only a part of the story.  Let’s hit the rewind button and go back to about two months earlier…

Okay…now that we’re all safely nestled back in a period about two months prior to the aforementioned events, let's pick up where I left off, shall we?  I remember that day, as if it were yesterday.  And what a beautiful day it was: the sky was blue, the birds were singing, there hadn't been a cloud in the sky for weeks, and we were all just completely copacetic and tranquil.  I think it was late summer because “skuu-ell” had not yet resumed, which made things just exquisitely wonderful.  ("Skuu-ell."  That’s the way my old band teacher used to pronounce the nine months of hell we all had to endure every year.  Isn't it interesting that human pregnancy and the "public school year" last the same period of time?  Hmmmm...full term vs. mid term, trimester vs semester...it's all just feeling a little suspect to me, you know?  One really has to wonder how many other paybacks are extracted from us just because we made mom uncomfortable.  AND at no fault of our own, mind you!) And so there I was, minding my own business and shooting baskets in my driveway, when Mrs. Dirge walked up and asked me if I would help her with something.  “David…there are some snakes in my back yard, and I was wondering if you would be willing to come get them?”  I put down my basketball and said something like, “Sure…let me go get my Dad’s shovel.”

Five minutes later, and I was in Mrs. Dirge’s back yard, looking with her at a little collection of what appeared to be about a dozen baby copperheads.  I used my Dad’s big scoop shovel, got them all up, and then proceeded to carry them out to the middle of the cul-de-sac, where I dumped them out on the pavement.  (We all lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in a place called “Brimstone” [yep…as in Fire and!—I kid you not] in Fairfax Station, VA.)  I then set down my shovel, went and got my gas can and some matches, and then proceeded to douse the snakes with gasoline and to light them on fire.  It was kind of cool to watch them crackle as the pavement turned black all around them.  (Okay…for you female readers, this is just the stuff of boyhood; nothing out of the ordinary here.)  ALL of this, and, I repeat, ALL of it, occurred under the watchful and approving eye of the legendary Mrs. Dirge.  After all had been completed, Mrs. Dirge kindly thanked me, went home, and proceeded to tattle-tale on me two months later for doing something that I, still to this day, consider to be in the same general universe (A universe that I affectionately call:  “Boys and Their Many Uses of Fire.”) as my neighborly service to her and to her snakes, who are all now in heaven, I believe--God rest their little copper-headed souls.    Again, just the stuff of boyhood; nothing out of the ordinary, here.

THE END

…of part one—more later!