If Wishes Were Horses

What's the difference between a horse and a motorcycle? Maybe it's the hangtime before you land in the bushes. Join the Captain of my Corral over at An Army of Ermas as he saddles up his Harley for the ride of his life.

Field of Streams

Homeward bound from a Fourth of July picnic, we passed down the main street of our small town. The journey was slowed somewhat due to the unusual traffic, but the tractor soon turned off and we had the road to ourselves.

As we approached the Municipal Complex, the kids, excited by alarming and possibly disastrous situations, noticed a mob outside the fire station who both appeared to be hard at work placing letters on a large sign by the road.

“Look, Firworks!”

Nothing says small town like a budget without enough spare change to buy a vowel.

Boys are natural fans of pyrotechnics, particularly the pyro part, and I’m always on the lookout for fresh air opportunities, so we whipped a U-turn at the abandoned gas station and came back to join the crowd.

The public parking places were occupied by the fire truck and a wheelbarrow, so we parked the car in the Fire Marshal’s yard, and struck up a conversation with the boys’ Scout Leader. It seems the Town Council had a son who got them a good deal on fireworks, so a Fourth of July blowout was in full swing.

At the time, we didn’t realize the importance of the word “blowout.”

The kids, with a genetic instinct for finding free food, headed toward a table dripping with slices of watermelon. An unlimited supply of a fruit that’s 90% liquid. There’s a good thing to have on hand when the yard is full of free-range kids and the bathrooms are locked up.

In the fenced pasture across the road, the fireworks launch squad strode into view. The crew chief carried a cardboard box full of bottle rockets and a disposable lighter. His wife wore blue jeans and a motorcycle bedecked tank top that didn’t leave much room for the handlebars.

Son Two materialized out of the twilight. His cheeks were sticky and there was a misfired watermelon seed stuck to his chin. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Across the street, the launch chief sorted through the rockets like he was searching for the half inch piece in his socket set, and carefully arranged a bouquet of bottle rockets in a soda bottle.

“It’s about to start. Can you wait?”

Son One appeared beside his brother, wearing a pained grin and dancing a familiar jig. “You, too?” He nodded just as the first rocket took off with a sizzle of sparks.

Both boys disappeared. Nothing comforts nature’s call like a lit fuse.

The fireworks display proceeded with random showers of red and gold sparks, interrupted now and then by an unmotivated dud rocket that bailed on liftoff and headed back to the picnic table that served as Ground Zero. Once, the launch team was visible through the gloom and gathering smoke, stamping out embers in the tall grass of the pasture.

Son One appeared by my side, clutching another slice of watermelon like it was a football and I was the defensive line of the Pittsburgh Steelers. “They set the bench on fire, but they put it out with a juice box.”

I’d had a slice of watermelon myself and the juice box reference made me think fondly of indoor plumbing. I squinted at him. “Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?” Across the street the launch crew ducked as another dud rocket zoomed in low over the pyrotechnic staging area.

“I can wait.”

Stephen King never came up with a scarier line.

He dashed away, weaving a path around knees and ankles like an Olympic skier on a timed run.

Suddenly, the grand finale accidentally erupted. The entire area lit up in a patriotic display of billowing smoke and crackling fire. The picnic table and the box of fireworks were ablaze and nearby portions of the pasture showed signs of imminent ignition. The fire truck swept out of the driveway and across the street where it made short work of the ambitious embers.

As the excitement died down and the crowd drifted away through damp ash flakes floating in the air, both sons appeared at my side, eyes alight, wearing Junior Firefighter stickers. They smelled like bacon.

“This is the best Fourth of July ever!”

“So, where’d you get the stickers?”

We heard a blast from the fire truck and turned to see the driver give the boys a wink and a wave.

“What’s that all about?”

“Well you know how you always tell us to use our natural resources wisely?”

I’ve been a mom long enough to know that when they remind me what I’ve said, I wish I hadn’t said it.

“Well we don’t have to go to the bathroom anymore. AND we helped put out the fire!”

Sim Son

Today in the spirit of goodwill and because I wanted to put off doing the dishes, I agreed to play a video game with my teenaged son. Electronics is still a new and unfamiliar territory for me. I remember when we played Solitaire with real cards. Teenagers are also a new and unfamiliar territory. I remember when I entertained the children with the big box of Crayolas and a Barney video.

He handed me a controller that looked like the key to the nation’s nuclear warheads.

“Shouldn’t this be kept in a briefcase chained to a large, clean-shaven man in a suit?” I asked turning it over in my hand.

“It’s easy. You press the big buttons on the front to go up and down and to look behind you. You use the four arrow keys to go the different directions. You press the round button at the bottom to shoot.”

“What are these other little buttons for?” I asked gesturing toward a circular arrangement that resembled a miniature Stonehenge.

“You don’t want to know.”

Instinctively, I tightened my grip. There was a blinding blue flash on the screen.

“Great move, Mom. You just blew yourself up.”

After some experimentation, I managed to mobilize my soldier. He advanced to a cliff and fell over the edge. Luckily he landed beside an assault rifle which would come in handy if I could figure out how to pick it up. While I was still trying to decide which combination of alphabet buttons to use, my son buzzed by my head with a flying motorcycle. There was a blinding blue flash on the screen.

“Mom, you might want to stay away from that big button on the right. You blew yourself up again.”

“I can’t help it. When you attack me, my keen, battle-honed instincts kick in and I squeeze the controller.”

“Well your keen, battle-honed instincts just took out two jeeps, a health pack, and your food supply.”

“My soldier has adapted to short rations in the field.”

“That’s because he’s dead.”

I was delighted to find that my soldier reacted to stress the same way I do after a long day at work. He frequently collapsed in a pile then popped up prepared to obliterate mankind in the mad search for provisions. Granted, learning to work the controller was a little bit tricky. The soldier’s head refused to function in cooperation with his body, and there were times I felt sure his feet started off in directions that had nothing to do with the overall mission plan. Sounds like any given Monday morning at my house.

I wish all I had to do for supplies was stroll over a backpack along the trail. In real life, I’d probably break my leg in three places, dislocate my elbow, and tear my pantyhose, only to find there was nothing left in the rations pack but six stale Cheerios and a candy bar wrapper. Here, there was a blinding blue flash and moments later Soldier Boy was as good as new.

My son, good sport and selfless humanitarian that he is, soon tired of watching my multiple suicide missions and began to give me pointers. “Mom, the thing to remember is that if you see a blue flash, that’s bad.” And later, “Mom, your gun is pointed at the ceiling. You just blew a skylight into your hideout.” Soon after that, he sighed and stopped his soldier so close to mine that I could have parted his helmet with my flame thrower if I could figure out how to aim at anything besides my feet.

My teenaged son was giving me a free shot. I smiled as my keen, battle-honed instincts took over.

There was a blinding blue flash.

He sighed. “Mom, how’d you like to play Solitaire? We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. We’ll use real cards.”