The afternoon sun was relentless, beating down on the 3 browned bodies moving through the waving grass. The breeze was the only thing making this summer day bearable, carrying with it the smell of river water and rose gardens. It was 1952 and Joe, the oldest, had turned eleven that past February. His wisdom and authority was rarely questioned by his two brothers. Ok, his wisdom was questioned daily, but his authority was asserted right quick to keep the natural order of the brothers.
Joe stalked their goal (that authority thing again) while Jr. carried their biggest secret. Three firecrackers that the night before, had been rolled in their momma's glue and BB's from their Christmas guns Their stifled giggles not quite waking Pa., but only because he was snorin' like a bear again. Little Ronnie brought up the tail, with the wire he was in charge of trailing behind him, still nursing his tender head. A dutch rub had been the punishment for challenging Jr.'s claim on the firecrackers.
"What you snivlin bout Ronnie?" Joe wasn't about to let a chance to call Ronnie a whiny bastard pass.
"Nothin got sweat in my eyes is all" Ronnie's eyes said something more akin to "fuck you", but that kinda swearin would land him at the end of Pa's swingin belt for sure.
The muttered "whiney bastard", didn't go unnoticed but in a rare show of prudence on the youngest's part, went unchallenged.
Joe decided to drop the subject as soon as the flash of blue and rust caught his eye. "There's the fort!" and they took off like a shot, sweating and gasping for breath between laughter, in the glaring sun.
The flash of blue quickly revealed itself as the rusted out hood of an old Dodge pickup, the ram still gleaming in the hot sun. Joe and the boys had had a helluva time dragging it to just the right spot; about 40 yards shy of what their folks called Bird Shit Tree. You see, every evening at dusk, hundreds of birds would roost in that tree. A cacophony of tweets, caws and trills graced the riverside every night. The noise? Unbearable. The shit? Prolific. The boy's had decided this would be the summer the birds would find a new home.
After checking the fort, the crew headed for their target. Joe saw a problem immediately. Climbing Bird Shit Tree was not going to be a glamorous experience.
"Jr. head up the tree an put the firecracker in that crook." The look on Jr.'s face told Joe he was going to have to be more convincing than that. Before Joe could break out the Indian Rug Burn technique, Jr. jumped behind Ronnie and held up a hand.
"Joe, you thought this shit up, you get to climb the tree. Sides, I don't know how to wire it right, it won't spark an we'll havta wait for t'marra night."
Joe looked at the tree whos bark had long since lost its battle with the birds. Joe took one menacing step toward his brother.
"Jr. you whiney bastard!" Joe could tell he was getting stuck with the shit job by the defiant look the younger two were giving him. The idea of not getting to watch the birds fly off in a squawking panic was enough for Joe, he headed for the tree. It was like climbing a sand pile. The powdery poop covered his chest instantly, and rained down on his brothers' heads. His only goal was to make it to that crook bout halfway up the tree without getting crap in his mouth. Eating shit was sure to ruin his status as head of this bunch.
The climb took bout three minutes, but felt like an eternity. Joe sneezed a couple of white slimy sneezes at the crook, but he had made it.
"Throw me the firecracker Jr. I want out of this tree." Three firecrackers and a well placed wire later Joe was scurrying back down the tree and the boys were running the wire back to the fort.
Joe sat nearest the battery with Jr. and Ronnie flanking him.
"Hey Joe" whispered Ronnie "you look like shit!" Ronnie and Jr. cackled at the indignant look on Joe's face. It was going to be a long wait for dusk. The lower the sun sank, the quieter the jokes got. The anticipation was thick in the air as the first few birds headed back to their roost. It took 10 minutes for the full blast of bird calls and flapping wings to pass overhead. Quiet giggles were heard when a couple splats of white goo hit the hood, one catching the ram's horns in a direct hit. Fifteen minutes later the birds were mostly home. Cackling, cawing and of course crapping.
It was time.
The whispered countdown could have only been heard by three excited boys...
"Three....two....one...."
CRACKA BOOOOOOM!
Panicked and pissed off squawks were quickly outnumbered by thuds and flying feathers. Easily one hundred birds, many of them in a few pieces, hit the ground. Feathers flew everywhere. When Deputy Regan arrived five minutes later, he couldn't believe his eyes. Feathers were still floating down, covering everything. Including three boys with the most shocked look on their faces, standing behind the rusted out hood of an old Dodge pickup.
"Dad, I can't believe the cops came!" I gasped between giggles.
"Yeah, old Red Regan looked like he was going to have a heart attack. He told me years later that he was sure some fool had killed himself."
"That is just nuts. I can't believe you guys killed all those poor birds!"
"Well, your Grandad couldn't believe it either. He whooped all three of us and then made us go out and rake up the mess." Dad's chuckles were strained as he wheezed out "He whooped us when we got back, too."
We all laughed. Not just a plain "haha", but one of those rare laughs that starts in your belly and creeps right up to your hairline. There was a lot I could have said in the silence that followed. Dad, I love you, Are you proud of me? I am proud of you. I have been one lucky girl. Instead, I took his hand and watched the IV drip, drip, drip. I looked at him laying there, his belly distended from the surgery. He was still so jaundiced from the blockage that turned out to be a tumor. We didn't know it was cancer yet, but we would find out soon enough. For now there was time for another story or two.
rating: 11
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