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Chiggers, Moon Shots & Dog Farts

“Good grief Sam, stop farting! You’re making me sick,” I shouted at him from my perch above him in the camper of Dad’s truck. As if the wet dog smell wasn’t bad enough, Sam had been eating grass all day to settle his stomach, and he had horrible gas. Who knew what he had eaten in the field the day before, but whatever it was, it had given him a very sour stomach, and every time he relieved himself, it killed me. I had every window in the camper wide open as we traveled down the bumpy dirt road. It was a frigid 19 degrees outside, but I couldn’t have cared less; I had to have some fresh air!

The truck was finally slowing down, thank God! Dad eased the brown Ford F-150 to the shoulder of the road and parked at what was to be our final hunting spot for the day. Sam nearly knocked me down as we bolted for the rear door simultaneously.

I came rolling out the door gasping for air, knowing full well my face had to be green. There stood Dad and Harold Wilson bent over double in laughter. When they finally regained their composure and straightened up, Harold had that famous grin on his face, and I knew they had been listening to us all along on the intercom. Suddenly, I was glad I hadn’t cussed out Sam.

I was 12 years old, and this was my first big hunting trip with dad and Harold. It would be another year before Dennis got to come along. We had traveled to Red Cloud, Nebraska, to hunt in the famous cornfields that spanned multiple-mile sections. It was bird hunting heaven, and the pheasant and quail were huge! So were the chiggers. We had been wading through waist-high brush all day long, and my ankles were already itching and burning from the chigger bites. I could not wait to stop for the day and find a scratching post just like Sam.

The birds had been holding tight all day, and we had bagged a few, but we were still below our daily limit. So, we decided to make one more stop on the edge of town before sunset. Sam was one of the finest hunting dogs around, and he caught the scent as soon as we unloaded. He wasn’t wasting any time, and neither were we. We fanned out and headed into a thick patch of brush that bordered a freshly cut cornfield. An old, dilapidated farmhouse stood to our left (south), with a row of enormous cedar trees to its north that settlers had planted decades before as a windbreak. It was the perfect spot for pheasant and quail to roost for the night, and we hoped it would be our best spot of the day.

The strong wind coming from the northwest blew directly into our face. I shivered in the cold and pulled my gator up another inch. Freezing rain and sleet had just started to fall, and miniature icicles began forming on our gun barrels. The conditions were brutal for hunters but perfect for our dog. We were downwind from the birds, and that gave us the advantage.
We made our way into the brush slowly, allowing Sam to work back and forth in front of us as usual. I was in the middle; Dad was about 20-yards to my left just outside the windbreak, and Harold was about the same distance to my right, walking along the edge of the freshly cut cornfield. My pulse quickened, as it always seemed to do when we were on birds. We had gone about 100 yards into the field when Sam went down on point.

Sam was directly in front of me, about five yards away, with his nose was buried in the dense brush about a foot off the ground. His body was frozen solid in mid-stride, and he wasn’t moving a muscle. Harold Wilson was the finest bird dog trainer in Ottawa County, and Sam was his prized pupil. He was a beautiful black and white English Setter, and he was something to watch in the field. When Sam went down, you better be ready.

Harold would usually walk in behind Sam to flush the birds. But that time, Harold gave me the honors. He said, “Go ahead, Eric, flush ‘em.” So, I flipped the safety off my Remington Model 870 and slowly eased my way in, crouching a little bit, gradually moving forward one step after another, eyes straight ahead; I fixated on the point of Sam’s spot. That’s when it happened!

I swear a full-sized Huey helicopter launched straight up from between my legs. It was the biggest rooster you have ever seen; his wingspan had to be 20-feet across. The flutter from his wings sounded like twin jet engines roaring all around me. His tail feathers frisked me on the way up better than any TSA agent ever could. He knocked the hat from my head and purged himself all over me on his way to freedom. He scared me so badly that I shot my 20-gauge straight up into the air. If it had been a semi-automatic, I would have no doubt unloaded the entire magazine. But I never even drew a feather.

I’m not sure which was more embarrassing, the moon shot for which I became famous after that day, or the buckshot shower I got when the number 6 magnum load rained back down on me afterward. Both became fodder for hunting campfire stories for years to come. My only saving grace was that my little brother Dennis had not been around to witness it.
Thankfully, Harold was better prepared for the flush than I was, so he could bag himself a nice trophy bird that also flushed from right under Sam’s nose. Yeah, Sam was right; there were birds there, alright. But I sure didn’t expect to step on one of them!

The birds held tight because of the wind and weather, but old Sam found them, and we flushed them out. Harold and Dad took two pheasant roosters from that field each, and I managed to regain my composure and bag one myself before the sun set. All in all, it hadn’t been a bad day after all. In total, we bagged eight pheasants and a dozen quail that day, enough for a few fine meals when we got back home. But the Huey helicopter, he escaped unharmed.

Oh, I forgot to mention that the Huey wasn’t the only one who purged himself that day. I had forgotten about it when we were outside in the cold, but once back inside the camper, there was no hiding it. Sam wasn’t the only one with an aroma now, and I had forfeited my right to complain. I can still see the look on his face as he tried desperately to crank open those widows with muddy paws…

 

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Valiant Pond Dive

The bell rang promptly at 3:00 pm and everyone bolted from the building, racing for an array of cars parked along the East side of the building. Camaros, Trans-Ams, Mustangs, a couple of Beetles, a Vette or two, a few sedans and one spotted Plymouth Valiant sat there quietly, totally unaware of the onslaught about to hit them. Engines revved, music blared, tires spun, gravel flew, and the race was on to see who would be the first to reach the Dairy Queen down the road. An after school ritual repeated day-after-day, week-after-week during the school year. But today would be different, mighty different, for a few of us.

I sat on the trunk lid of my spotted Valiant, waiting for Dennis to come out. He was always the last one, stopping to talk to every pretty girl he saw on the way. It was a typical Friday in late October, overcast with a slight chill in the air, in fact it was nearly perfect. It was football season in Oklahoma and today was game day.

“The pads will be popping tonight,” I thought to my self as I donned my letter jacket and zipped it up. It was a bit nippy outside wearing only a red away jersey. I was number 60 that year and the jersey was bright red, made of nylon/polyester with big white numbers front and back. It was filled with small pinholes to improve air flow and the wind cut right through it on that chilly fall afternoon.

Just then I heard a shout-out that sounded something like deedle-deedle-dee and I looked up to see Dennis coming across the parking lot with our good friend Larry Cox in tow. They wore their jackets and jersey too, just like all the other varsity players in Picher on game day. It was tradition for players and cheerleaders to wear their uniforms to school every Friday during the season, and we enjoyed participating in and observing the tradition, if you know what I mean.

We had a couple of hours to kill before the bus left at 5:00 pm. We played the Fairland Owls that night and it was an hour bus ride to get there. Coach Floyd wanted everyone on board and ready to roll promptly at 5:00 pm and he was serious about it. He had been known to leave players behind who didn’t comply. No one wanted to pay the price for missing the bus so everyone got there 15 minutes early, at least.

“You guys want to run down to Betty’s and play some pinball,” Larry asked. “Nah, I can’t. I lost all my money pitching quarters with JD and Marlon at noon,” I replied. Then Dennis piped up and said, “Hey, let’s go cut some didos at Lawyers. That will be fun!” Didos, short for donuts, were a frequent pastime for Chat Rats and that was a great idea. So, we loaded quickly into my Valiant and head off toward the chatpile.

The Lawyers chatpile had seen better days but it had become a haven for outdoor motor sport enthusiasts. At it’s peak, it was the third largest chatpile in Ottawa County, after the Sooner and Western. But at that time, wind and weather had eroded it’s peaks and had created a large kidney-shaped sand flat along the southern base of the chatpile. On any given Saturday, the sand flat was filled with motorcycles, dune buggies and go karts. We had just been there the weekend before and had a great time. It would be deserted on a Friday afternoon and we would have the whole flat to ourselves. “Hurry up,” Dennis said. “We don’t have much time.” It was now 3:15 pm.

We raced down A street from the High School, turned right on Connell and headed south. We made a left turn on 12th Street like we were headed to Mineral Heights and then made a quick right onto an old gravel road that led around to the backside of the chatpile. We were eager to get to the flats and have some fun, so I had the Valiant floored and we were flying down road. That little straight-6 engine was revved to the max and chat was flying out from the back wheels clanging against the fender wells like popcorn popping at the movie theater.

We rounded a sharp left turn and the rear end of the car swung to the right just a bit too much, but we never lost control. Chat was flying everywhere, and we were whooping and hollering like the ornery teenagers we were, having a great time! And then I saw it! 

“Oh Sh*t!” I shouted at the top of my voice. Someone had cut a trench across the road leading to the sand flats and they had piled up the chat 10-feet high on the other side of the trench. I considered jumping the mound like the Duke brothers, but then realized we would never get to the mound because of the trench. I slammed on the brakes, standing on the pedal as hard as I could. The rear end slid wide to the right so I counter-steered hard right into the slide to keep the car from spinning out of control. That stopped the spin but left us sliding sideways down the gravel road toward the trench at 50 miles an hour.

I hit the gas hard hoping to spin the Valiant around in the opposite direction of the trench and slow our momentum. (Yeah, I know, it was a Valiant with a six-banger instead of a Hemi. What was I thinking?) But the rear wheels suddenly found grip on the hardpan under the loose gravel and the car lurched forward and shot off the road, about 10 degrees left of the trench. Everyone in the car breathed a momentary sigh of relief, thinking we had avoided catastrophe, until we saw the pond!

A deluge of water splashed high, up and over the hood, and hit the windshield with a loud thud. I thought for sure it would break, but it didn’t. We sat their motionless, surrounded by the thick cloud of dust we had stirred up on the gravel road. For a couple of minutes, we couldn’t see anything outside, and no one said a word. I could hear the heavy breathing of Dennis and Larry and I turned to look at both of them. They were as white as ghosts and taking in big gulps of air. Larry whispered, barely audible, “We’re alive!” It was now 4:00 pm.

When the dust cleared, we realized we were not out of the woods just yet. My poor Valiant sat high-centered on the steep embankment of Lawyers Pond. Rocking back and forth on the ridge like a teeter totter. I opened the driver’s side door and water poured into the floor board. The front half of the car was floating in the pond and there was an eerie gurgling noise coming from under the hood. Oh yeah, that little straight-6 was still running. Halfway under water!

Larry was sitting in the backseat, leaning over the front seat so he could see through the windshield. Dennis had been riding shotgun, up front with me. I told Larry to scoot back hoping it would help change the center of gravity. When he did, the front end of the car rose a couple of feet and the gurgling noise under the hood changed into a propeller sound. 

We spent the next few minutes debating who would wade out into the filthy mill pond to push the front end of the car up enough for the back tires to make contact with the ground. Finally, it was decided that it would be Dennis and me. So, we took off our letter jackets and our jerseys, our shoes and our socks, but we left on our jeans. After all, we had to have some protection from the water moccasins…

Dennis and I waded carefully out into the pond, gingerly stepping over the rocks until finally making contact with the slimy mud bottom of the mill pond. Thank God, it wasn’t the deep end of the pond. I could feel the mud squeezing up between my toes with each step. Hanging on to the front bumper of the car trying not to slip and fall completely into the pond. Dennis and I each grabbed a corner of the car to steady it and then I hollered to Larry to move to the driver’s seat. Just then I looked up and tadpole eggs were dangling from my right forearm. Yuck!

Larry eased out of the back seat and the center of gravity shifted. The front end of the car suddenly weight hundreds of pounds more and it broke over center and started to fall into the pond. Dennis and I grunted and pushed up simultaneously like we were coming up out of a personal best squat. My feet sunk another six inches into the muddy bottom, but we held the line. Larry slid carefully into the driver’s seat, and that helped, finally we could feel momentum changing in our favor. The front end of the car came up out of the water another foot, just enough for the fan blade to touch the top of the pond and spay muddy water all over us. We were now covering in mud from head to toe. But we didn’t care, victory was in sight.

Larry shifted the car into reverse and gunned the engine, but the rear wheels were still 6-inches off the ground. “Rock it,” I shouted to Larry, and he started rocking his body weight backward in the driver’s seat. Better, but still 3-inches from the ground. “Okay, let’s try it again and this time we’ll push up when you gun it.”

Larry threw his weight back in the seat with all his might and floored the pedal. Dennis and I pushed upward simultaneously with all our might. The car broke over center for good and the rear wheels grabbed the dirt. The little Valiant shot backward at breakneck speed. Larry hit the brakes hard, and the car slid backward, coming to rest just inches from the trench! It was now 4:30 pm.

No time to dress, Dennis and I piled into the front seat of the car while Larry jumped over the front bench seat into the back. We made a mad dash out on Lawyers Road and almost hit someone as we exited onto 12th Street at full speed. We only had 30 minutes to make the bus and our gear was still in the locker room!

We took the back roads this time, avoiding traffic in downtown Picher :-), and cutover to Cardin Road. We flew down the backroad, slid around the corner onto A Street and slid into a parking spot between the Band Room and Hayman Field. Everyone else had already boarded the bus, except for Coach Floyd and Dick Newton. They were pacing around in circles holding clipboards. They were missing 3/5ths of the starting offensive line and they were pissed. I played center, Dennis played right guard and Larry played left tackle. They weren’t leaving without us, but they we not happy to be forced to wait. It was now 4:45 pm.

We made a mad dash for the locker room, throwing on jerseys and coats while we ran bare footed across the parking lot to the field house. Stuffing everything from our lockers into gym bags we stopped only long enough to put on shoes and socks. Still wearing those wet jeans, we raced to the bus and rushed to find seats. It was 5:00 pm straight up!

That was the only time I can remember us not having to fight to get the back row seats on the bus. Brian Martin shouted out, “Glover, you stink!” Vance Box gaged and both of them quickly gave up their seats. In spite of all that, it ended up being one of our better games as an offensive line. The defense had a hard time staying close to us for some weird reason.

So goes another day in the lives of the Dirty Little Glover Boys, a couple of chat rat rapscallions in pursuit of adventure. This time accompanied by a loyal and true friend who helped us make a memory that will last a lifetime. 

Deedle-Deedle-Dee!

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Dirt Daubers

It was a typical late summer afternoon on Pearl Street; hot, hazy, and humid. Dennis and I were headed across the yard as usual on the way to the chatpile for some fun. The usual hardpan of the pasture gave way to soft, squishy mud and we left tracks across the field just like Duke our trusty companion who trotted along beside us.

A pop-up thunderstorm rolled through that morning, dumping tons of rain and leaving minnows swimming in the ditches. It raged like mad for about 45-minutes and then it was gone. The heavy air was oppressive, steam rose from the ground like evil spirits all around us as the intense rays of August sunshine evaporated the freshly fallen rain.

Dennis and I wore our usual summer attire; crew-cuts and cutoffs — no shirts, no belts, no sunblock, and certainly no shoes. We didn’t need no stinkin’ shoes nor sunblock, our feet were tough as nails and our skin dark enough to hide dirt. Perfect!

Baseball season had just finished, but I still carried my trusty bat with me everywhere we went. It was a 29-inch Louisville Slugger; a little too small to use at the plate anymore, but perfect for hitting rocks. We loved to pretend that we were Mickey Mantle, a switch-hitting, local hero from neighboring Commerce, Oklahoma. We picked up rocks of all sizes and sent them sailing high into the air, over the fence, just like the Commerce Comet, or so we thought.

Flipping the bat end-over-end in my hands as we walked, I stopped occasionally to launch a rock into the bleachers. On my last swing, I found a near-perfect, semi-round, golf-ball sized rock. Tossing it into the air with my left hand, I laid into it with everything I had. It was an MVP caliber swing and the rock hit the sweet spot square in the center. It took off like a rocket, a screaming line-drive down the left-field line like a frozen rope. It ricocheted off the left-field foul pole with a loud clang. It would have been a solid double for sure, maybe even a triple. “Wow, that was a shot,” I said gleefully to myself. “No wonder they call it the Hot Corner!”

Our make-shift baseball field doubled as a horse pen, so the left-field foul pole was actually a 4-inch piece of metal pipe that formed the corner post of the pen. The fence post (aka our foul pole), was sunk deep into the ground and encased in concrete to give it strength. The post was open at the top, making it the perfect launching pad for Roman Candles and bottle-rockets during the fun weeks leading up to and following the 4th of July. It also served as an awesome bazooka tube and we had dropped countless Cherry Bombs and M80s down that pipe just a couple of weeks before. I can still hear that throaty whump sound in my head today. We had all kinds of great fun in that corner of the pen, with that fence post, backed up by the vivid imagination of two chat rat rapscallions. That is, until that day…

When we reached the corner that day, Dennis grabbed the corner post with both hands, put his left foot on the lowest strand of barbed wire, being careful to avoid the barbs, and slung his right leg over the top strand of barbed wire like he had done a million times before letting momentum carry him safely to the other side. Just as he reached the apex and started to let go and jump the fence, he stopped himself mid-sling right in front of me. His right leg frozen in the air like a bronco rider. To this day I don’t know how he did that, but he did.

He slowly lowered his right leg down the other side of the fence, straddling the top strand of barbed wire, and then leaned forward toward the post. Turning his head toward me, he slowly lowered his right ear to the top of the post and said, “Do you hear that?” I took a step closer to him and said, “Hear what?”

Then I heard it, “Cool, that really was a shot,” I said out loud. Mistaking the buzz for ringing. “Told you that was a homer,” I said foolishly. But Dennis wasn’t smiling. All the blood drained from his face and terror filled his eyes. “RUN,” he shouted at the top of his lungs.” And with that he used the tension in the wire like a catapult to shoot himself high into the air. His feet were spinning in the air like a cartoon character, and when he hit the ground he bolted for the house like a scared jackrabbit fleeing a world-class beagle hunting dog. He heard them before he saw them. I, well let’s say I wasn’t as quiet as lucky.

A million dirt daubers came rushing up out of the tube at light speed, filling the sky in an instant. The leader of the swarm sounded reveille and I swear they formed an arrow in the sky just like a Looney Tunes cartoon, and I’ll bet you can guess where the arrow was pointed!

Before I knew what happened, Dennis had a ten yard lead on me, and that was all it took. I took off behind him as fast as I could but the slippery mud slowed my progress enough to allow the attackers time to reach their target. One after another, they released their poisonous payload like high precision bombardiers. “Should have worn a shirt,” I thought to myself.

When the attack was over, my back looked like a used turkey shoot target hit by a 12-gauge shotgun with a full choke. One massive blow to the center surrounded by dozen of stray stingers around the edges. Dennis, always faster than me, was also faster than the wasps that day. He made it safely inside before the onslaught and gleefully escaped the misery. Me, having wasted precious time bragging about my prowess at the plate, never made it to safety. Taught me a good lesson, never waste time telling others how great you are, because there’s always someone faster, smarter or stronger.

Dad threw a sheet of plywood across two saw horses in the driveway and they laid me face down on it like an operating table. It took a whole can of Grandad Ben’s Prince Albert tobacco to get all the stingers out of my back. I think there might have even been one or two in the ears. But the worst part, was listening to Dennis and my neighborhood buddies snicker every time they placed wet tobacco on another whelp while saying “Single to left, double to right, triple up the middle…” in mockery. Okay, I’ll admit it, I had that coming.

It was a couple of weeks before my back healed well enough for me to wear a shirt. I made sure it was a long-sleeved one when I finally mustered enough courage to get my revenge on those pesky critters. Defiantly, I marched over to the corner post again, but this time I had a quart of kerosene and a match in hand.

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Basketball Flash Mob

Our incessant whining finally wore him down. It wasn’t bad really, it only took two years of non-stop begging to convince him to install a basketball goal on the front of the garage. We were relentless, but eventually dad grew tied of our petitions and just did it. After all, we really needed the reps if we were going to turn pro and make tons of money!

We didn’t have much in those days, except what dad built or mom made, and in that particular case the backboard was handmade by dad from wood scraps retrieved from the dumpster at Newell Coach where he worked. Patched together like a quilt with dowel rods, Elmer’s wood glue and staples, it was reinforced with 1” iron straps across the back. The horizontal straps were welded to a box frame made of 1” steel tubing and the vertical braces were anchored to the front of the garage with four 6” lag screws. Yeah, Bob Glover built it to withstand two pre-teen boys who were even more destructive than a Cat 5 tornado.

He work hard on it like everything else he did. If our dad built it, it was done right! Whether it was a make-shift basketball backboard or a spectacular 29’ 11 3/4” sailboat (he built that while we were in high school), the craftsmanship was first rate through and through. He was meticulous with even the smallest of detail and his hands moved over wood like Picasso over canvas. He was a master craftsman if there ever was one. He filled every hole and every crevice in the backboard with wood filler or epoxy and then he sanded, primed and painted it. Two coats, at least. It was bright white of course with the customary red square and when he mounted it to the garage we all stood there in awe admiring it, for a minute.

I seriously doubt that it was regulation height, but we didn’t care in the least. None of us could touch the net anyway. I think it might have been Barry Stinson that made the first shot and earned the right to name the game. He chose HORSE of course, he always did. Barry was taller than all of us then and he liked to launch the big bombs that none of us could make.

The gravel driveway made dribbling difficult, so we just passed the ball mostly, and walked a lot when were were playing two-on-two. (Sorry, I think they call it traveling these days). The rough surface wreaked havoc on our ball, but I didn’t mind, the chunky surface made it easier to palm the ball for my famous sky hook! Hop, skip, jump, swish just like Lew Alcindor. Well, once or twice anyway.

We had a long driveway and on most days we would back up all the way to the street, take off at full speed (no need to dribble) and launch high into the air hoping against hope that today would be the day that we reach the magic 10’6” apex. Sadly, that day never came, at least not for me anyway. Dennis stood an inch taller than me and I think he might have reached orbit once against Wyandotte in the NEO tournament. But that was years latter. Dennis, Rod, Rex, David, Craig and Big Don spanked the Bears that day!

But, I digress, back to the story. I’ll never forget one particular fall day when me, Dennis, Barry and Marlon were playing. The air was crisp so the ball was extra hard and so were the bi-fold wooden doors that dad built for the front of the garage. We kept crashing into them on the way down for extra effect to show how powerful our dunks were (uh, um, maybe they were more like layups).

Dad always told us not to play with the doors open because there were too many things to damage or break inside the garage with an errant shot. But on this particular day we decided to open them anyway. He wouldn’t be home from work for hours, we reasoned, he will never know. Mom was in the house getting things ready for supper so she was too busy to notice too. So, we carefully folded back the bi-fold accordion style doors to give us more room to do cools trick shots underneath the basket.

We had already grown tired of dunking the ball that day so we started playing HORSE again. Marlon liked to do all kinds of crazy layups and Barry favored the long bombs, as I mentioned. We played for at least an hour, retrieving several shots from the interior of the garage before passing the ball to the next trick shot artist. We clanged shots off of all kinds of things that day, yeah we were doing cool trick shots long before the Dude Perfect guys were ever born! But we didn’t break anything, so dad would never know.

We played so long in the cold that our hands started to turn blue, so we decided to go inside the garage and warm up. Dad worked in the garage every night after dinner, year-round, so he had a little gas heater in the back. It was small but it did the trick. Unfortunately, we left the doors open too long and the cold wind had blown out the pilot light. No worries, dad always kept a big box of matches on the window sill for just such an occasion.

I remember Dennis kneeling down in front of the stove, match in hand, looking for the little pilot hole on the side. We had just closed the doors and there was a distinct odor in the garage now. I took a step back and glanced down the side of the boat dad was working on and that’s when I saw it. The 2-gallon round blue gas can that we used for the lawn mowers. A stray ball must have knocked it over and gas had spilled all over the garage floor. “No wonder I feel light-headed,” I thought.

Dennis was on the opposite side of the boat in the back corner of the garage. Down on his knees, leaning forward, he must have been below the vapor level because he didn’t smell the fumes. As if in slow motion, I saw his hand spring out match in hand. And before I could say STOP, he did it. With one quick flick of the wrist I heard the tell-tale sound of a matchhead dragging across the concrete floor. Then almost instantly came the WOOSH! And then the BOOM!

Fire flashed across the garage floor instantaneously and the concussion of the explosion knocked me back into the workbench. Dennis lifted off the floor like a pop bottle rocket and I think all four of us wet ourselves. Countless tools came flying off the shelves and at least a dozen Gerber Baby Food jars shattered, spilling nuts, bolts and screws all over the place. I swear the walls of the garage ballooned out and then rapidly snapped back like a rubber band. The garage doors flew open and four boys exited at warp speed right behind them. White as ghosts, and cold in the seat.

Miraculously the fire blew itself out and thankfully no one was seriously injured. Just a little singed hair on Dennis’ arm and I think Marlon might have lost an eyebrow. We were scared within a inch of our life and I’m quite sure that all four of us had to change pants afterwards. But, thank God, we were not injured. At least not by the explosion…

The blast not only rattled the garage it shook the whole entire house. The windows, the doors, the lights, the tables…and not just ours, but the neighbor’s house too. It took about ten seconds for Mom to appear on the front porch. She came running out, spatula in hand, with flour all over the front of her new apron. I think she even had flour in her hairs but I can’t say for sure because none of us had the guts to look her in the eye.

Mom had been preparing fried chicken for dinner and now she and the kitchen were both covered in gooey egg wash and flour. It was about that time when she utter the words we had heard so many times before but never enjoyed: “You boys just wait till your dad gets home.”

The next hour, sitting there on the front porch dangling our feet, might have been the longest hour of my life. I’m not sure who was more surprised when dad got home; mom or us. Anna Lue, our mom, said “Bob, the boys have something to tell you.” He instinctively said, “What have they done now.” And then we proceed to explain how it was all Marlon and Barry’s fault, but he wasn’t buying it. We expected a secondary explosion would be promptly forthcoming, but it wasn’t. He looked us in the eye and said, “You boys will listen to me next time, won’t you.”

We nodded our heads vehemently in agreement, but we and he knew that would never happen! “Boys will be boys,” he said to mom on his way into the house after a long day of work. That’s when she threw the chicken at him.

So the next time you see, hear or read a story about a flash mob appearing somewhere out of nowhere to surprise an audience. Maybe, just maybe, you will remember the Dirty Little Glover Boys, the original basketball flash mob!

 

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