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There was a lot of friendly arguing over tent locations since level areas are not prevalent on my folk's property. For those that did end up slightly tilted, we arranged sleeping bags so pillows would be on the uphill side and feet were facing downhill. Not that any of the kids would notice or care, since sleeping was not on their agenda for the weekend.
Camping out to them, meant eating only when hungry and sleeping only when tired. The rest of the time was filled with swimming in the pond, water-fights in the sprinkler, and lots and lots of running and yelling. The littlest tots blew bubbles and played for hours in the sandbox. Our elementary age kids drew an entire metropolis in colored chalk on the paved driveway, including roadways for the big heavy duty trikes that my dad, in some moment of madness, purchased for the grandkids. These trikes have mountain bike tires and are large enough for a grownup to ride if he felt so inclined. Of course, my husband and brothers were just so inclined and put more miles on them over the next couple days, then the kids had all summer.
Watching BJ, Corby, Brent, and Gene have races down the paved curving driveway, reaching speeds of way more than should be possible on a child's toy, was a scary thing to see. They shrugged off the bad example they were setting for all children under the age of maturity, which if your wondering, is any male under ninety and female's under the age of fourteen.
I can't count how many times my sisters-in-law and I had to yell the phrase, "BAIL OUT IN THE GRASS!" to all the youngsters who had watched, and then copied, that bad example. We still burned through several boxes of band-aids for skinned up knees and elbows. Mom had loaded up on bandages and I've learned from past experience, to always carry a well-stocked first aid kit in the car.
The preteen and teen group played volleyball, bocce ball, horseshoes and frisbee. Adults joined in occasionally but mostly sat around, eating and relaxing. We set up several tables out on the driveway and loaded them up with food, then herded all the kids through at mealtimes. On a few occasions we literally had to corral them to make them take time out to eat, unlike the adults who pretty much grazed all day long at the never-ending buffet. In my last trimester of pregnancy, I felt like I had the best excuse.
After the evening meal, when the setting sun was starting to play peek-a-boo through the corn stalks in the neighboring field, Dad brought out the fireworks. Neighbors, aunts, uncles and cousins were all invited for the impromptu show. It was a large, noisy crew spread out on blankets and lawn chairs across the yard. Dad, with help from all the other menfolk, was in his element, playing with explosives.
My husband came over to give me a warning of a practical joke about to take place. He said some of them were going to light a fake but huge, highly illegal-looking explosive, and at the last minute act like it slipped and then yell and run, pretending it was going to detonate right on the ground. He did not want me panicked and trying to run while eight month's pregnant. I thought he was being sweet and sensitive until he added that he was not wanting to deliver a baby in the middle of a family reunion, although, that would not be my favorite birthing scenario either.
I sat serenely in my comfortable chair and watched the whole event unfold. After they announced that a spectacular and loud explosive was about to go off, we all waited on the edge of our seats for whatever wonder we were about to behold. When the guys "fumbled" the large casing and it hit the ground and fell over, screams and yells erupted and people were scrambling out of chairs in every direction. Most of the little kids stood rooted to the spot, looking around, wondering what was happening, and if they were supposed to be running too. My dad bolted across two rows of chairs and was sprinting across the garden when the sound of uncontrolled male laughter brought him to an abrupt halt. He knew immediately that he had been the victim of a practical joke.
"You crumb bums!" That was his only comment as he walked back to the group, most of whom were still paralyzed with laughter. A lot of us were really impressed at how far he got and how fast he got there, considering he was the oldest one of the group. My mom, however, was a little disappointed. She told him quietly, "I would like to think that if such a thing were to happen for real, you would at least save a grandchild or two in your mad dash for safety." I didn't see any other adults scooping up children and taking them out of harm's way, though, either, so he shouldn't feel too bad.
The second day was spent much like the first, with the addition of a special treat at supper. BJ and my brother Brent went out gigging or "frogging" as we call it, after the fireworks show, and brought back several pounds of frog legs. Any child that was curious enough and had a strong enough stomach to help, got to "de-pants" or peel the skin off the legs after they were cut off from the bullfrogs. Mom and I called the kids into the kitchen to watch the breading and frying of frog legs in a corn meal batter. The kids were fascinated to see firsthand that frog legs actually do "kick" in the pan when they get fried. They were a little disappointed to find out the true reason for that reaction is that the exposed nerve endings in the open end of the leg twitch and jerk when they get hot. They preferred the idea that a frog just never quits hopping, even when he lands in a frying pan.
There were enough legs for everyone to at least get a taste, and the general consensus among the kids was that they tasted "just like chicken legs, only smaller!"
All I know is that the combination of fireworks and frog legs makes for a rousing good country celebration for the 4th of July, and I hope some year we can repeat it. Although, after the practical joke fiasco, I remember Dad saying he needed a few years to recuperate, - I wonder if ten years has been long enough . . . ?
Copyright @ 2009 Jana Miller
