

The Adventures of

## James and Newanda

An adventure so close you can taste it!

### Cameron Dickson

The Adventures of James and Newanda  
Written by Cameron Dickson  
Illustrated by Jared Slye

Copyright 2015 Cameron Dickson  
Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

Ebook formatting by Maureen Cutajar  
www.gopublished.com

### Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Slugs

Chapter 2: A lot of Jingle in My Pocket

Chapter 3: Fish Dreams

Chapter 4: The Case of the Muddy Buddies and the Death of Tuna Casserole

Chapter 5: Fishing in a Barrel

Chapter 6: Pig Drifts in Swamp Heaven

Chapter 7: A Blazing and Zippy Fort

Chapter 8: All Curdled Up

Chapter 9: "Jug or Not" Road Rafting

Chapter 10: Adrift and Almost Afloat on Secret Lake

Chapter 11: Field of Fire

Chapter 12: Tragedy at the Cinema

Chapter 13: All Puffed Up

Chapter 14: Reverberations

Chapter 15: Tree Trouble

Chapter 16: Super Wedgie

Chapter 17: The Midnight Ride of James Buccaneer

Chapter 18: Rest in Pieces

Chapter 19: Summer Fling

Chapter 20: Apples to Apples

Chapter 21: A Colorful Grand Slam

Chapter 22: Summer's End

Chapter 1

### Slugs

The world revolves around money; I've just got to slime my way into more of it.

I'm not the coolest, smartest, or even the best-looking kid in Arlington, but I've got some good things going for me. My name is James J. Jacobson and I am ten years old going on eleven.

I have a sidekick who is my best friend. Newanda (new-wan-duh) is a warrior, genius, explorer, and philosopher. Newanda is not his real name; his real name is Newman, named after his Great Grandpa, a famous sheepherder in Cody, Wyoming.

We spend most of our days together in the backwoods of Western Washington. There are days when everything goes right, and the world with all its bounty is there for the taking. Other days, the world and all its fury seem to pile up against us. We are average kids that fear nothing and have a strong taste for adventure.

We lived in the small town of Arlington. A rural town about fifty miles north of Seattle, Our community is encircled by the two forks of the Stillaguamish River and butted up against the Cascade Mountains.

Our houses were on the outskirts of town and our playground was the wooded backfields, ponds, streams, and trails that surrounded our homes. Every kind of person and house imaginable could be found in the area. Not many people in our neck of the woods had a lot of money, but most everybody was satisfied with life in the rural western frontier.

We lived on 183rd Place, a gravel road with five other homes. My house sits at the top of the gravel road, and Newanda's is down the hill, the second one on the right. Each of us live in doublewide mobile homes on 2 ½ acre lots. It sounds like we have a lot of land, but 2 ½ acres was the smallest amount of land you could own, and most of it was covered in trees and bushes. We were Washingtonian hillbillies, and our families lived by the adage, "You know you're a redneck when your house is mobile and most of your cars are not."

School had just got out, and that meant the start of summer. It rained most days throughout spring, fall, and winter and we dreamed of warm sunshine and all the fun things that came with it. In summer we spent most of our days outside and tried to do as many things as possible.

We filled the days with bike riding, fort building, bullfrog trapping, fishing, and anything a boy with an imagination could think of. The days seemed to dash by, and before we knew it, summer was gone. School was back in session and so was the rain.

At my house, money was sometimes hard to come by, so I sought whatever odd jobs I could find. I found the occasional lawn-mowing gig with the neighbors or cutting wood for my grandparents. There was one job that proved to be the most fun; pest control.

My Mom hired me to kill slugs. Mom gave me one cent for every slug I sprinkled with salt. There are a zillion slugs in Washington, and most of them live in our garden. I was gonna be rich beyond my wildest dreams. I figured I could salt 500 slugs a day. That's $5 per day, times that by 90 days. I was sure to have 450 dollars before the summer ended.

Killing slugs is an intriguing job, and it is a career with multiple perks. With zillions of slugs out there, the supply is endless. There is a pleasure and maybe twisted satisfaction in watching a slug shrivel with the first sprinkle of salt and curl into a ball of mucus slime.

Slugs are made of 90% water, and the water gets sucked right out of them, and what's left is a pile of yellowish goo. It looks like a massive booger hacked up from the depths of a giant, snotty nose.

Another perk, of course, was ridding the area of savage, plant-eating beasts that devour the entire garden in a single feeding. Finally, it was a job that I was good at, and Mom rewarded my efforts with cold, hard cash.

At slug 423 I ran out of salt.

"If you want more salt, you'll have to buy it yourself." My mom yelled out the window.

"What?!"

Buying salt would totally eliminate all of my profits. My slug hunting days were over, and my dreams of being rich, at least for the moment, were slaughtered. The slugs were going to live to slime another day.

In a month, July would be here, and with July came fireworks. We'd spend many hours tying slugs to bottle rockets and slipping firecrackers underneath the unsuspecting creatures. Who needs salt when you have gunpowder? Unfortunately, Mom would not fork out any cash on slugs killed for entertainment.

With the salt gone, it was time to move on to more exciting things. I had dreams, and I was the only one who fully understood them. Four dollars was not enough to buy a canoe, but it might be enough to find something exotic at Barney's Pet Shop. Besides, after one day of slug slaughtering, my back was killing me.

I was on a fast track to becoming the hunchback of Washington. I was too young to spend my days hunched over and would probably end up spending my money on some doctor who would tell me to stop salting so many slugs.

I took my empty saltshaker and headed back to the house.

"I killed 423 slugs today!"

My mom replied back, "Six of the slugs did not completely die, and are still munching on the garden."

I wasn't sure how she kept track of the live and dead slugs, but I wasn't going to argue over six cents.

"Okay, I killed 417 slugs and severely wounded 6 others."

Mom peered down at me, annoyed that I would want payment for the death of a few hundred slugs. I think she had high hopes of me forgetting about the penny per slug. She hesitantly walked back to her bedroom to get some money.

I heard her mumble down the hallway, "I can't believe he used all the salt in one day."

Mom counted the money from the bowl on the dresser where Dad has emptied the loose change from his pockets for the past few years. Mom called it her savings account. Getting paid from their savings account was fine except; Mom was not interested in sharing the fifty-cent pieces, and other silver looking coins.

She counted out 417 pennies and they filled my pockets to the brim! I didn't complain, because money was money and I was in great need of it. Neighborly side jobs were not always profitable, and the old timers always figured I was worth about 25 cents an hour.

They'd usually give some wise remark like, "Don't spend it all in one place you little whipper snapper."

Chapter 2

### A lot of Jingle in My Pocket

" _Sometimes the call of the wild can be answered with pennies."_

At the beginning of every summer I took all my hole-filled, high water jeans and chopped the legs off to make shorts. Cutting old jeans was a challenge and the ends were usually uneven and sometimes a little too short.

My pockets, heavy with coin, hung down below the cut off mark of my frayed trousers. When I walked the coins seemed to push the jean part up and the pocket parts crept towards my knees. Every step I took caused the coins to swing up and down and side to side. It was just a matter of time before my jeans became fancy girl underwear and the constant banging of the coins caused more than just a charlie-horse in my thighs.

With pockets hanging down and money begging to be spent, I knew exactly where to blow my hard earned cash. The local pet store was smack dab in the middle of town about three miles away. The pet store, like most other businesses in Arlington, was a family owned joint. Maybe not "family owned", but owned by a smelly bachelor named Barney. You never knew what kind of animals you'd find at Barney's pet store.

I needed a ride into town, and Mom was getting ready to do some grocery shopping at Safeway (her favorite grocery store). I pleaded with her to let me come. "Mom I'll salt more slugs for free if you take me with you."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, "I guess. I have to get more salt anyway."

The Safeway was not exactly "safe" for a young kid like me. Bored teenagers found the back parking lot a good place to have a forbidden smoke and bully the passing kids. With my ultra short jeans and my pockets full of pennies, I was a prime target for abuse or even theft of my hard-earned cash.

My Mom liked to do her shopping there, so I had no choice but to put my fear aside if I wanted a ride into town. The alternative was to ride my bike, the Rodeo Rider, down the winding Burn Road. The ride there was easy, but the ride back up the hill was a battle.

I was in the bathroom trying to tuck the ends of my pockets back in my shorts, when I heard mom yell from the inside of the van, "James, if you're not here in 5 seconds, I'm leaving without ya!"

I raced out the door and hopped in the passenger seat as mom was backing out of the driveway.

Mom parked at the Safeway and I walked down Main Street to Barney's pet shop without any trouble. I daydreamed of the treasures I might find. Every step caused the coins to jingle as they smacked against my thighs. I kept "the rhythm of life" as I made my way down Main Street. When I got there, my legs were numb from the constant pounding of coins.

The pet store was a long room filled with animals that were mostly bred in someone's barn, house, or pond. The dogs and cats were kept in cardboard boxes. The fish were in glass aquariums covered in algae. You could see the places where ice scrapers were used to peel away enough slime to see the aquatic animals swimming around. The air was humid and stinky. It was the type of air that wonder if it is toxic as you breathe it in.

I opened the door and was blasted with the hot stench of hundreds of pooping animals. I smiled and entered the paradise with high hopes of finding the ultimate prize.

Even though my legs hurt, I went from cage to cage and tank-to-tank to examine each animal. Most of the pets were too rich for my baggy pockets. Fish and animals of all their sorts were defined as exotic or rare. This of course, raised the price to a ridiculous level.

My pet owning dreams flew out the door as the dollar signs jumped out and slapped me across the face. I felt faint. I don't know if it was due to my dashed dreams and discouragement or the lack of oxygen in the room. Just as I was about to admit defeat, I saw it!

I stared at the sign. My body tightened like a puma about to pounce. It was a gift sent from the heavens, shining like the star of Bethlehem. In my mind, I could hear large crowds of angels singing in the background. All the thoughts of sadness and discouragement left, and uncontrollable shivers of excitement came over me.

The sign read, "Feeder fish 11 cents." Yes! I quickly did the math in my head, four hundred seventeen pennies divided by 11 was about 38 fish.

The rank smell of coffee, cigarette smoke, and body odor ripped me out of my fish fantasy. My eyes started to water and I plugged my nose. I heard something behind me, and I cautiously turned around. I rubbed my face and focused on the long beard draped over a big belly standing in front of me. My eyes followed the beard all the way up to the head of the ogre that grew it. I wore surprise all over my face, as I was startled at the sight before me. I jumped and scrambled back a foot or two.

Through his stained teeth and coffee breath, he bellowed, "Can I get you anything?"

"Wha...wha.. What?" I stuttered back.

"What can I get you?"

"Oh, umm" I patted and shook my coin filled pockets and said, "I- I- need s-s- so- some feeder fissshhh!"

"What are you gonna feed with those feeder fish?"

"Noth- nothing....I'm just keeping them as my pets."

"We don't sell no feeder fish to people who are just gonna kill em!"

I really wanted those fish, and I wasn't gonna let this smelly old man squash my plan. I mustered up the courage and replied back, "I ain't gonna kill these fish, I'm gonna raise them to be the biggest gold fish in A-Town."

"You better not resell those fish at some crazy school fair, stuff em down some garbage disposal, or have some screwy goldfish eatin' contest."

"I promise, I ain't gonna do none of that!"

"Alright, I'll give you one net full, but that's it!"

Barney reached in with his miniscule net and pulled up six squirmy little fish. As he dumped the fish into a plastic bag, I couldn't help but think, "Stingy old man! He could have used a bigger net."

"That'll be 75 cents." Barney said as he dropped my bag of fish on the counter.

I counted out 75 pennies and raced out of the store. I stopped on the sidewalk, bent over with my hands on my thighs and took several deep breaths.

Despite all the hullabaloo with Barney and the fish, I had fared better than I ever imagined. The fresh air cleared my mind and I smiled with satisfaction. I had six fabulous fish and my pockets were still clanging loudly with money. Out of pure joy, I flew down Main Street, racing to get back to Mom to show off my new pets, and there was also a candy aisle at Safeway with my name on it.

I loaded my basket at the Safeway with gummy worms, gummy rats, gummy snakes, and a chocolate Charleston Chew. I had a bunch of amazing fish, and a shopping basket filled with candy. How could this day get any better? Without hesitation, I stepped right up to the checkout counter. The checker, Shirley, rang up my candy as I unloaded my pockets. Shirley and the three customers, who got in line behind me, did not seem to appreciate my pennies.

"Ugh..Are you kidding me?"

I cringed as I heard mom's voice. She was the third customer in line, and detested people who took too long at the register.

Mom shouted up to me, "James J. Jacobson, can't you find another place to spend all those pennies?"

Chapter 3

### Fish Dreams

Shirley helped count all the pennies and I personally bagged my candy. Now that I spent all of my cash, I rubbed the feeling back into my thighs and pulled my shorts down over my pockets.

I patiently waited for Mom to finish checking out and helped her load the groceries in the van. I climbed in the back and held my fish tightly as Mom sped for home. I opened a gummy rat and quietly munched on the head. I daydreamed about my fish and the plans I had for them. They were going to be monstrous in size, and I'd teach them to do tricks. I couldn't wait to show Newanda!

When I got home I grabbed my bike, the Rodeo Rider. It was a banana seat, pedal bike covered in lasso and cowboy decals. It had pedal brakes and wide handlebars.

Newanda and I had the same bikes that we both received the same Christmas day. Our parents and Santa must have been in cahoots and found some great deal at the local hardware store.

The Rodeo Rider was a terrific bike for a casual Sunday ride and creating giant skid marks in the gravel. It wasn't exactly built for speed, jumps, or tricks, but we managed to do all the above with reckless abandon.

I wrapped my bag of fish around the handlebars and started down the hill to show Newanda. I was so excited to share my fish; I forgot all common laws of physics. I was flying like a kid leaving his classroom on the last day of school. My feet were a blur of motion as I zipped down the hill.

I was pedaling faster than the chain could handle and with a clinking pop, the chain fell off. A pedal bike without a chain has no brakes. I was out of control and I cringed as I raced by the large alder trees, prickly salmon berry bushes, and thorny blackberry vines that lined the road. No matter what, stopping was going to be very painful! I started to panic and prepared to meet my maker.

I screamed in terror as I passed Newanda's driveway. "Awwww, I can't stop!"

Newanda was standing by the side of the road with his dog Sarge waving his arms and yelling, "Hey James! What the devil's going on here?"

Bewildered, Newanda wondered what was chasing me. Sarge sensed the excitement and was jumping all around until I passed her, and then she ran after me barking and jumping as if this was some sort of new game. Newanda joined the pack and we dashed towards the bottom of the hill.

"Somebody help me! No brakes! I'm gonna die!"

Cars travel pretty fast on the main road and with all the trees, there was no way to see anyone coming down the driveway. Our driveway ends at the road and directly across from it is a chain link fence that wraps around some trees and a great big pond. The end was coming and I was heading straight for the road and the fenced in pond. I had no way to stop, and no way out of this nightmare bike ride. I hit the asphalt and prayed that there were no cars coming.

NO such luck! Barreling down the road was a truck filled with teenagers. My eyes met the driver's eyes. It was Big Tony and his crew of teenage riff raff. Big Tony was the local bully, and he took every chance he could to poke fun at all my mishaps. I couldn't stand him. He had a sixth sense for knowing when I was in trouble.

I screamed as I barreled across the road and he whooped with malicious glee and swerved towards me. My life flashed before my eyes, and I saw myself in my cut-off jeans, a mangled mess with little goldfish strewn all over the area. In my head, I mumbled, "I just wanted to show Newanda my fish."

Big Tony swerved out of the way at the last second and I continued my journey across the road. My front tire slammed into the base of the chain link fence, but the rest of the bike and my body kept going. The back wheel, despite being up in the air, continued to spin. The Rodeo Rider threw me off like a bucking bronco and tossed me over the fence. With flailing arms and legs, I had taken flight. Destination..., big pond.

Sarge and Newanda were now stopped at the end of the driveway with eyes wide open and jaws dropped. Big Tony and his teenage mob had also stopped their truck, and were stunned at the unfolding scene. My audience was small, but they were witnesses to an impossible feat.

I thought to myself, "If I live through this moment, I could possibly go down in the history books." For an instant everyone was dead silent as they watched me rocket into the muddy shallows of the pond.

With my lengthy flight you might expect a perfect swan dive or a maybe a tuck and roll with a front flip. Graceful I was not. My arrival was more like a wounded duck coming in for a crash landing. I managed a face planting belly flop into the shallow water. With difficulty, I lifted my face out of the suctioning mud. Sluurrrpppp!

The plastic bag of fish snagged the fence as they flew through the air. Five of the six fish found the new hole in the bag and swam free into the muddy waters of the pond. I wiped some mud from my face and mumbled, "Come back little fishies."

Time stood still as I wiped more mud from my eyes and looked from side to side. In a glance I took it all in: the bike on it's side by the fence, the truck full of teenagers, the bag with one last fish, Sarge who was happily barking and wagging her tail, and Newanda holding his hand over his mouth.

The onlookers stood in disbelief, their mouths hanging open. I hung my head as my shame came into perfect focus. I couldn't believe what had just happened. One tear made a track down my muddy face as I watched my pride and my fish dreams sink into the murky depths of the big pond. Sarge broke the silence with another rambunctious bark, and time sped back up.

Big Tony and the other teenage boys were laughing so hard that guys were falling out of the bed of the truck. Sarge was howling in chorus with the whooping teenagers and jumped around like this was the best game she had ever seen. Newanda was having trouble climbing the fence, and was either crying or trying to hold in his laughter.

He managed to ask if I was okay once or twice, but mostly he was doubled over with bursts of farting and laughing noises coming out of his nose as he desperately tried to keep his mouth shut. I was the only one dying of agony, while everyone else was dying of hysterical laughter.

Newanda gained enough control to climb the fence and he helped me to my feet. I futilely wiped the mud from the rest of my body. I was bruised and only my pride was broken. Now I could see the humor in the situation and started to chuckle. Newanda could not hold it in any longer and spewed out giant bursts of laughter. His cackling was contagious, and I couldn't help but join in.

It felt good to laugh and it was the kind of laughter that squishes out tears. My heart still ached for my lost fish, and I let the tears flow. In relief, I thought, "Nobody has to know whether these tears are of joy or pain."

I looked down at my bruised and aching body and I noticed my hand was still clenched around the plastic bag. The bag was empty except for one small, half dead fish.

With a screech of tires the show was over. Big Tony and other teenagers drove away and hollered out the window, "That kid sure keeps life exciting. This is the most thrilling thing I've seen all day."

We stumbled our way out of the pond and climbed over the chain link fence. Sarge had finally stopped barking and howling. She jumped up on me and began to lick my dirty face. Newanda gave me a nudge and pointed at the sky.

My Mom always said, "With every bit of rain, there's always sunshine to follow."

I never really understood this saying until I saw that the great big sunbeam shining straight down on the pond like a spotlight. We stood on our tiptoes to get a better look. We both smiled because the sun shone brightly on five happy little goldfish swimming in a circle. We could almost hear angels singing, "Hallelujah!"

I took my bent bike and my half dead fish, and walked with Newanda and Sarge up the gravel driveway. By the time we made it up the hill the fish was lifeless. With not even a flick of its little tail, we decided to give it a proper watery burial. We headed to the bathroom and Newanda commenced his burial speech.

Newanda always seemed to know the right words to say, so he said the final words before the fish was flushed. "Here lies a feeder goldfish whose dreams of flying in the wilderness were fulfilled. He showed courage and bravery beyond the call of duty."

"Amen!"

And with that, I flushed the toilet and watched my little fish give one final flick of his tail.

Newanda and I sat on the front porch, eating a gummy rat and wallowing in our grief over the loss of six feeder goldfish. He tried to comfort me, "James we can go back to Barney's Pet Shop and buy some more."

Newanda had no idea of the trouble Barney had given me to get the fish. I replied back, "That smelly old hillbilly would never trust me with another fish again."

Just then, a scream from my sister Nelly came from inside. "There's a fish swimming in the toilet!"

And instantly, a smile hit our faces. The smiles got a little wider, and laughter found its way back into our day.

Chapter 4

### The Case of the Muddy Buddies and the Death of Tuna Casserole

Newanda and I were hanging out on the rope swing that was attached to the biggest cedar tree in the Arlington. The tree grew in the woods directly behind my house. We were swinging away when we heard some yelling coming from my backyard.

"Drop that pan, you stupid dog!" It was my mom shouting at some big black dogs that continuously stole Mom's pans. She would often put a bowl or pan of leftovers out for the cats to chomp on. The cats would lick it clean, and then Mom would take in the bowl and scrub it out. It wasn't the most sanitary practice, but it fed the cats, and got rid of the leftovers, like tuna casserole, that nobody wanted.

We ran out of the woods to see the commotion. I had never seen my mom with a gun, let alone my BB gun. She was screaming and running after the dogs with the gun aimed straight at their tail ends. The dogs were burning down the trail as if their tails were on fire. The pack of dogs included one great big leader and four smaller dogs. All of them were black as night and took turns howling as they sprinted away. The leader dog winked at us with a smirk on his face as he held another one of Mom's pans in his slobbery mouth.

Mom was frazzled. Her face was beet red, and there seemed to be steam billowing from her ears. We just stared in unbelief, not ever seeing my mom this upset before.

I hesitantly asked, "Are you okay Mom? When did you learn how to shoot a BB gun?" We stood in place as if waiting for a response. Mom took a deep breath and counted backwards from 10 to 1.

She walked up to me, handed me the gun, and angrily whispered five words, "Take care of this boys!"

We had been given the green light to take on the biggest hunt ever in the life of a 10 year old. This was a call to arms, the war of all wars. Our commander in chief had chosen us to avenge the loss of her bowls and pans. We were about to take on a mysterious enemy, not knowing all the dangers involved. The black dogs were crafty and secretive in their ways. We would need to be prepared for anything. It was necessary to find tools and weapons beyond the scope of my BB gun. There was one place that held a gold mine of odds and ends. It was time to access the OLD SHED!

The old shed in the backyard was not really a shed at all. It was the back end of a truck trailer. It was a place where Dad would store a jumble of stuff that didn't fit in the garage. The shed was filled with food storage, buckets, fishing gear, garden tools, mattresses, rope, metal rods, chains, and many other miscellaneous tools and knick knacks. It was also the place where Newanda and I found the needed tools and equipment to build inventions, vehicles, traps, and other odds and ends.

With all the equipment spread out before us, we settled on our tools of choice. We found a great big salmon fishing net, a bunch of rope, a pulley, some fishing rods, a tarp, and two 55 gallon barrels that were empty. To top it off I grabbed my BB gun, and of course we had Newanda's dog, Sarge, on our side. This seemed like enough for the task at hand.

I turned to Newanda and said, "With our brains, our tools, and Mom's tuna casserole, those dogs don't stand a chance."

Our first thought was to dig a pit in the backyard and trap the dogs. We started digging in the lawn, but only dug about three inches before the dense dirt had become too hard and too rocky.

There was no backhoe handy, and Dad would not approve of us using the motorized ice auger. We needed something to loosen up the rocks and soil, some sort of tool to give us a little more umph! We tried the pick ax, pitchforks, rebar, and actual axes. All of which made holes, but didn't do much to move the dirt.

After a few minutes of deep thought, it hit me like a wall of water. We needed to loosen the dirt around the rocks with water from the hose. Newanda grabbed the hose and started filling the table-sized pit in the yard. It was working, before we knew it, we were knee deep in thick, brown mud. We were soaked to the bone, but having a ball as we tossed shovel load after shovel load of mud off to the side of the pit. We figured the pit needed to be four to five feet deep to capture the dogs.

The deeper we got, the tougher the job became. After three hours of digging, we were covered in mud from head to toe and had successfully dug to a depth of 18 inches. The pit was no longer draining the water; it had become a mucky watering hole. We were closer to creating a kid wading pool then a pit to catch big dogs. What do you do with an 18-inch mud bath?

Through Newanda's dirty face, his eyes lit up. He grabbed some old bricks and some boards and he exclaimed, "Go grab the Rodeo Rider!"

We set the bricks and the boards and made the classic BMX dirt bike jump. The idea was to pedal from the far end of the yard to the jump, accelerate the bike up the angled boards, skyrocket over the mud pit, and land safely on the opposite side. It was Newanda's idea, but it was my bike. Somehow, I felt it was my duty to test the jump first. Newanda objected and wanted to try it, but I was already pedaling when he began his opening argument.

With a howl of excitement and zero hesitation, I zipped through the yard. My bike and I had difficulty gaining the needed speed with the wheel that was bent from its previous flight over the chain link fence. I whooped as I got close to the jump, "Yahoooo!"

The moment I hit the jump I knew I was in trouble. The bent wheel of the Rodeo Rider hit the angled wood with such force that it knocked the supporting bricks down into the mud pit. Rather than flying over the hole, my front tire slammed into a pile of mud, brick, and wood. It wedged itself into the rubbish and stopped the bike dead in its tracks and for the second time that summer I went flying over the handlebars of the Rodeo Rider. Headfirst, with my face leading the way, I fell into the mud.

Mom heard the scream as I flew through the air and she dashed to the window to see what had happened. Like a bird of prey her expert eyes found the new mud hole, the barking dog, the crashed bike, one muddy boy standing in awe, and another boy pulling his face out of the mud. Panicked about the situation, she swooped out of the back door, and marched towards the mud pit.

"Are you okay, and WHAT in heaven's name, did you boys do to my lawn?"

As she walked closer to the pit to get a better look, her foot found some mud. Mom lost her footing, and propelled forward down the sloppy chute and landed in the our trap.

The second I saw Mom heading my way, I took a deep breath and dove for cover beneath the mud. I felt Mom land on top of me, and push me further down.

In shock, she sat in the filthy sludge and screamed out, "James, where are you?"

I tried to stay still as long as possible, but I was desperate for air. She howled in fright when I started to wiggle under her. Fearful of the unknown moving thing, Mom scrambled out of the mud and lay down next to the pit gasping for air and holding her heart.

She said to Newanda, "What giant, slithering monster could possibly be hiding in hole filled with muck?" She shrieked again as I came wriggling to the surface and raised my head to take a breath.

Mom was instantly furious as her fears, embarrassment, and anger settled onto the face of her mud-covered son. "JAMES!" she bellowed.

I knew I was in for it! I jumped out of the pit and made a mad dash around the trailer, leaving a brown, gooey trail across the yard.

Newanda stood by, unsure of whether to help or to run home. He'd never seen my Mom this mad, and we had done plenty of things to cause her grief. The sound of Dad's truck coming up the driveway decided for him; he would hide.

Dad stepped out of his old truck just in time to see a mud-covered boy running for his life and an irrational, mud-covered woman chasing him. Surprised at the unusual sight, Dad muttered, "What the devil's going on here?

"Dad, you gotta help me! She's gone crazy!"

"JAMES! You had better stop running so that I can kill you! Then you'll wish you had died in that pit!"

Realizing that the two brown and oozing people belonged to him, Dad yelled, "STOP!"

I froze in place. Mom slid to a stop a few feet away and bent over in exhaustion. When she caught her breath, she gave a hard and furious glare right into Dad's eyes. She nodded calmly and slowly in my direction and said, "Take care of this!"

Mom went inside to get cleaned up and Newanda emerged from his hiding spot. Dad looked us over and asked, "Why is there a hole in the yard? What were you two doing?"

Newanda answered, "We were making a trap to capture those thieving dogs and..."

Dad didn't let him finish. He just shook his head and covered his mouth. Trying to hold in his laughter, he said, "You better fill up that hole fast, stay clear of Mom, and you are absolutely forbidden from entering any houses until you spray yourselves off with the hose and you are clean!"

Glad that we had avoided major punishment and had been granted permission to play in the water, we sprayed each other until the water ran clear. Plastering each other with water and dancing in the grass, we sang out, "I'm a maniac. Maniac on the floor and I'm dancing like I've never danced before..."

Chapter 5

### Fishing in a Barrel

We filled in the pit and tried our best to patch the grass back in place. We took Dandelion seeds and spread them on all the bare spots to help match the rest of the lawn.

Now that we were sprayed off and the hole was filled, it was officially time to work on the capture of the pirating dogs. Newanda had a glint in his eye and was wearing his planning smirk. I knew that look, and it usually meant the gears in his head were turning and ideas were flowing. It also meant that we were in for more hard work that day.

In a stern but excited voice, Newanda yelled out, "Plan B! Grab the fishing poles, the net, and some rope. I'll roll the barrel. We're going dog hunting!"

We found some leftover tuna casserole in the fridge and we decided we could use it to lure the dogs into our trap. Newanda piled up the dog catching gear and the casserole dishes in my arms and he pushed the barrel. We walked for several feet until we reached a large tree at the end of our property. The tree stood guard on top of a hill that was covered with salmonberry and blackberry bushes. I dumped the equipment on the ground and Newanda let the barrel come to a rest.

We stood in front of the tree; I had one hand on my hip and the other hand rubbing my chin up and down in the usual thinking motion. I glanced over at Newanda who was doing the same thing. The wheels in our heads were turning as we discussed how to bring Plan B to life.

Our plan was to tie the casserole dish to the end of some fishing line to use as bait. I was told to hide in the barrel with the fishing pole. It was my job to reel in the casserole dish, luring the black dogs to the big tree. Newanda would be in the tree about ten feet in the air with the fishing nets ready to drop on the unsuspecting dogs. Newanda was an expert tree climber, and speedily shimmied up the tree with the nets. I fastened the tuna casserole onto the fishing line and squeezed into the barrel. Everything was in place for our seamless plan.

I was stuck in the barrel for over an hour and was busy wiggling my numb feet and toes. The blood was finding its way back into my legs when suddenly, Newanda, who was high in the tree, whispered, "Start cranking!"

I began reeling in the casserole dish. Luring the dog, like a kid after free donuts samples in the grocery store. The first dog caught sight of the dish and ran straight to it. The others followed as if the dish was a wounded rabbit. I guess I wasn't winding up the line fast enough because one of the dogs grabbed hold of the bait. I have caught a lot fish in my days, but this was the biggest one ever.

The line was screaming off the reel and Newanda was yelling from above, " You've got him! Hurry and pull him in!"

I've caught some monster fish in my day, but this was the biggest. Dad and Grandma were the master fisher-people in the family, and they taught me a thing or two. I was doing my best to remember their teachings by keeping the line tight and the rod tip up. I did not want to break the rod or the fishing line. The problem was that I had caught a 90-pound "dog-fish" and my fishing line was 30-pound salmon line. My Dad uses this line to catch the big Chinooks that come up the Stillaguamish River. The reel was still screaming as the dog ripped the line away.

Newanda was standing on the branch ten feet up just whooping and hollering for me to pull him in. "Get him, bring him in!"

Just then, we heard a crack as the branch broke away from the tree. For a split second my eyes met Newanda's as his excitement turned to complete terror. "Watch out! I'm coming down!"

From my barrel, I watched Newanda fall. He came crashing down with a large thud as he butt-flopped onto the grass below. He moaned, shook off the pain, and shouted, "Keep reeling in the dog!"

The line continued squealing from the reel, and then suddenly stopped. The dog, with the casserole dish in his mouth, had pulled out all the line on the fishing reel. I gripped the rod so tight my knuckles were white from lack of circulation.

Without warning, the dog gave a loud yelp as the taut line pulled the dog to a sudden stop and back flop. The dog's teeth still had a death grip on the casserole dish.

I let out my own yowl, as the sudden jolt caused the barrel to wobble and tip over. Like a true fisherman, I couldn't let this monster dog-fish go, so I held onto the fishing rod as the dog took off again. This time pulling a rolling barrel behind him.

Newanda, a little dazed from the fall and slightly tangled in the fishing net, began to stumble after the rolling barrel with another large fishing net held high above his head.

The dogs were now in a pack, and it was difficult to see which one had the casserole dish. Of course, the dogs headed down the hill with the blackberry briars and salmonberry bushes.

My fishing line caught on a bush and snapped. It didn't matter that the dog was no longer pulling me along, gravity had taken over. I was wedged in a barrel rolling down hill, and I didn't need a big black dog to pull me along. I was mowing down bushes and small trees like they were blades of grass.

My momentum brought me to a large rock on the edge of a small cliff. I was launched into the air and flew for a second or two. With a loud crash, I found my resting spot in the passenger seat of a rusty, convertible Volkswagen Bug.

I was stuck in the bottom of the barrel. My body was twisted like a pretzel and my hands were still clutched to the fishing pole that was without line.

Having disentangled himself from the net, Newanda raced down the hill. He had no problem finding his way to me because the barrel had left a four-foot wide swath through the bushes. Newanda climbed into the driver's side of the Bug and pulled me out of the barrel.

I felt like my world was still spinning and I was seeing triple Newandas. He held me steady and we waited for the dizziness to subside. After a few minutes we made our way back to the top of the hill. It was another failed attempt, but neither of us were ready to quit.

We approached the house with trepidation, unsure if Mom was still upset. We walked in and Mom had sandwiches and juice pops waiting for us. After a shower and a chat with Dad, Mom had cooled down. She began to understand that our efforts were made on her behalf and apologized. Dad had also been thinking of ways to help Mom, and took a couple of metal bowls and hammered them to the wooden back porch. I thought Dad's idea was genius. After all, what kind of dog could carry off an entire porch?

We had been defeated by the black dogs two different times. We had lost the battle, but not the war. Our new plan was simple and direct; we'd follow the dogs and take back our stolen stuff.

We grabbed the BB guns and started making our way through forest. The trail was well worn and easy to follow. The dogs must have been using this same path for years. Like following a trail of breadcrumbs, we found random bowls and dishes littered along the byway. We continued our journey until the trees and bushes thinned out to a cleared spot of land.

We stood frozen in awe at the sight before us. It was like a trolls horde of treasure. There was a single wide trailer half buried in vines, a dilapidated chicken coop, black puppies running any which way, and Mom's pans spread all over the property.

We started picking up dishes from the clearing. The puppies were excited to see humans and thought we were there to play. They would grab hold of each item we found and play tug-of-war. The puppies were adorable, and our thoughts of vengeance began to disappear.

Eventually, the puppies got tired of chasing us around. We stuffed our BB guns down the back of our shirts and filled our arms with as many dishes as we could carry. We had travelled for only a minute of two when two large, black dogs emerged from the forest. Our mouths hung open in disbelief as we beheld the spectacle in front of us.

The dogs looked at us with a twinkle in their eyes and a skip in their step and hoisted their heads up to show us their ultimate war trophy. In their mouths were the metal bowls. My Dad had done a great job nailing the bowls down because they were still connected to MY BACK PORCH. "Ughh! Those crazy dogs stole my porch!"

As if to call a cease-fire, the big dogs dropped the porch. They smiled and ran back to their puppies. We couldn't help but laugh as we dragged the porch and bowls back to the house. It was over and I knew that one thing was certain; Mom would need to find a new way to feed the cats.

Chapter 6

### Pig Drifts in Swamp Heaven

With the war over and the black dogs all but forgotten we discovered the nearby woods were filled with a new adventure, an entirely new frontier. We explored the untrodden area and came across the greatest trail system embedded within the state of Washington. No, it wasn't the Great Western Trail, or a trek across the Cascade Mountains. It was better, and we named them the "Swamp Trails."

These were swamplands during the wet months, but during July and August, they were perfect bike tracks. Covered in dry decomposed leaves, there was hardly a rock or stick on any part of the pathway. The Rodeo Riders were built for these trails, and well equipped for the obstacles that might stand in our way.

The next several days were spent building jumps, berms, and cutting out fallen trees to widen and enhance the trail system. When our improvements were complete, Newanda and I burned up the hours riding down our new bike track. We crashed a time or two, but most often we successfully navigated the jumps, sideways berms, and whoop-de-doos.

With the wind in my hair and not a care in the world, I was riding along the trail making my way to the main jump. It was a little piece of forested heaven. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement. It streaked out of the woods and stopped in front of me. I heard a snort and a loud squeal. I hit the brakes and skidded to a wobbly stop. After I regained my footing, I looked up and found that I was staring directly into the eyes of a wild hog.

Paralyzed with fear I began to scream out, "Newaaannndaaaa, there's a mondo pig in front of me."

I had heard rumors of wild hogs living in our neck of the woods, but I had never seen one. I was annoyed that the beast would dare trespass on to our newly claimed swampland. Full of indignation, I was sure that a wild hog would be afraid of a strapping young man like myself. I grabbed the nearest rock and chucked it at the hog's feet. The beast seemed to smirk as he gave a grunt followed by a laughing snort.

His eyes shifted from mine as Newanda came riding up the trail. Newanda yelped as he came to a crashing stop. The hog held its ground and was now staring at both of us. Trying not to break eye contact, I grabbed a stick and Newanda snatched up a rock. That's when we heard a sound that sent chills down our spines.

It was a second squeal, louder and deeper than the first. It was more like a scream. The horrid sound wasn't coming from the hog in front of us. The sound shot out of the woods to our left. We broke eye contact with the danger in front of us so that we could face the new peril at our side.

I gulped as I saw a big mama sow framed by the surrounding trees. She had a drift of baby porkers hiding and squealing behind her. Her attention was focused on us and she gave us a long, drawn out stink eye. I had heard that you should never mess with a mama bear or her cubs, and it seemed that mama pigs were just as crazy. Our face off lasted several seconds.

Suddenly, without warning, she bolted straight towards us. It was like a freight train of pork rampaging through the bushes. We hopped on our bikes and rode for our lives on the well-beaten path. Our bikes knew the way but so did the pigs. The pigs made it quite clear that they had already staked claim to the Swamp Trails.

It wasn't long before we realized that we couldn't outdistance the pigs. We dropped our bikes and headed to the nearest trees. Like scrambling squirrels, we shimmied up the trunks.

Alders and Vine Maple trees grow like weeds in the forests of the Northwest. Unfortunately we picked a young grove, and the trees were only about 4 inches in diameter and they got skinnier as we made our way towards the top. The narrow trees couldn't hold our weight and they would bend and sway, first one way and then the other.

The hogs surrounded our trees and kept trying to catch us in their teeth as the trees bent toward them. We felt like raccoons with hound dogs nipping at our heels. We managed to climb just high enough so that the pigs narrowly missed our feet. There was nothing we could do but sit and sway, trapped in our trees like prisoners.

We were stuck for what seemed like hours before the hogs got bored. Slowly, one by one, each of the pigs left our two trees. I called over to Newanda, "Do you think it's safe to climb down?"

Newanda didn't answer my question and gazed up his tree. With a ponderous look he said, "I wonder...."

Instead of climbing down Newanda started to ascend as high as he could. He used his weight to help the tree bend to the point that it was touching another tree. Newanda jumped and grabbed a hold of the new tree.

"That was too easy," I thought as Newanda climbed up the next sapling to repeat the process.

Newanda was literally swinging from one tree to another. I didn't want Newanda to hog all the fun, so I shimmied further up my tree and leaned out as the tree bent towards another. I jumped from my tree and wildly grabbed ahold of the new one. It wasn't as graceful as Newanda's jump but it was just as effective.

Our fears of being torn apart by wild hogs were quickly replaced by the thrill of jumping from tree to tree. We whooped and hollered just like Tarzan as we leaped and clung to the next tree.

I howled out, "Ah....Ah... Ahaaa..."

Newanda let out his own shrieks of joy. "Ah....Yah, this is totally awesome!!!"

We were having a terrific time racing each other and attempting to see who could make the biggest leaps. Every so often we'd jump to a tree that was covered in soggy moss or fungus slime. The tree was slick as snot and almost impossible to grab. It made things more difficult but so far it had not stopped us. It was a part of the game and the extra challenge made things more thrilling.

I looked at Newanda and pointed to a tree ahead of us. We smiled and gave each other a thumbs up as we simultaneously jumped for the same tree. The tree was covered in slime and we scrambled to find a handhold. We could not find a place to grip and with arms and legs flailing, we fell backwards out of the tree. We screamed out in unison as we back-flopped on to the forest floor, "Oh noooo!!!"

Trying to catch our breath, we lay motionless on the leaf and moss covered ground. The fall had knocked the wind out of us and we were bruised and in pain. After several minutes of moans and groans, we stumbled to our feet. With arms around each other's shoulders, we headed down the trail to find our bikes and head home. Despite the pain, we laughed and smiled as we thought about the day's adventures and we could hardly wait for future days in the Swamp Trails.

Chapter 7

### A Blazing and Zippy Fort

The next morning we decided we needed a base camp and lookout for our newly claimed territory. We wanted a place to protect us from possible wild pig attacks. Priority number one was cutting down small Alder and Maple trees to provide the framework for a lookout tower.

Thanks to a week of scout camp, we considered ourselves lashing experts. Lashing is the art of using rope and knots to hold poles together. With a little rope, a few logs, and a lot of imagination, we were on our way to building the perfect fort. The logs were plentiful, and the rope was a bunch of used baling twine we found next to the neighbor's barn. We couldn't wait to make our fort building dreams a reality.

We found a group of four large trees that were close together and formed a square. These trees would serve as the main pillars for our fort. Next, we attached crosspieces to each tree and lashed them where the corners connected. We then laid several logs on top of the crosspieces to make a platform. We repeated the process to make a second level that would serve as our lookout station.

On the second level we leaned four logs together and tied them at the top to form a pyramid shape. Where the logs crossed at the top, we built a small platform. When our fort was done, we stood back and admired our greatness. I turned to Newanda and said, "This is awesome!"

In scouts we also learned to make a platform fire. This type of fire was used by many wet weather campers to keep the wood off the soaking, wet ground. We thought the top of the pyramid would be a perfect spot to try our new fire building skill. We built a ladder to climb to the top of the pyramid. Then we hauled moss and dirt in buckets to the top of the fort. We layered the moss and dirt over the logs to protect them from the fire. When our fire platform had enough dirt and moss to make it safe we collected a stash of dry wood. It was an almost perfect tower. It had 3 levels that included a lookout, a fire platform, and a big stash of firewood. It just needed one more thing.

What would make the perfect tower? A zip-line of course. We needed a way to get down to the ground as quick as possible, especially if we caught a wild hog. A wounded pig would need a final blow to end the misery of being pelted with bb's, arrows, or spears.

We had many leftover, short and frayed pieces of baling twine. We tied them together and made one long rope. Then we tied one end of the twine to the tower. We had brought an old pulley of Dad's in our bucket of tools. We thought we could use it as the trolley of a zip line and slide down from our tower to a the ground. After threading the baling twine through the pulley we tied the other end of the rope to the lower end of the trunk of a distant tree. The pulley had a loop at the bottom. We strung a small piece of rope through the loop and tied it around the middle of a sturdy stick to make the handle of our trolley. This was the best tower we had ever made, and the zip line was better than snow on Christmas day.

Newanda was the first to try out the zip line. Without any hesitation, he jumped off the tower and slid down to the soft landing of the swampy trails below. Newanda ran back with the trolley and climbed up the tower. He made it look so easy and any worries I had, left when I saw the smile on his face. I grabbed the handle and jumped forward. Just like Newanda I flew with ease to the ground below. It was so thrilling that we spent the next several hours sliding on our zip line.

We were on the second level of the tower and getting ready for another run on the zip line, when I noticed a rustle in the bushes below. I nudged Newanda, and we both watched as one of the hogs came out of the bushes to explore the new fort.

The hog was sniffing around and was puzzled by the new addition to the Swamp Trails. He seemed to have no clue that two young boys were hovering above him.

We quickly forgot about being adventurers and switched to being hunters. The problem was that we were having so much fun on the zip line that we had yet to arm the tower with spears and arrows. All we had was bunch of baling twine to ensnare the hog.

Newanda thought the time was right to make a move so he stuffed the leftover twine in his pocket and grabbed the zip line handle. Not knowing what he had planned, all I could do was watch.

Newanda jumped off the tower and slid down about 5 feet. The baling twine slipped off the wheel of the pulley and jammed against the inside edge. It stopped dead, leaving him suspended in mid-air. Newanda was helpless, too far from the tower and too far from the ground. The slobbering hog was circling like a hungry shark directly below him. Newanda began to swing back and forth in hopes the swinging would unjam the pulley.

In his desperation to get to the ground and capture the pig, Newanda kept swinging back and forth as he dangled above the wild pig. The baling twine was rubbing and starting to shred against the sharp edges of the pulley. He was unaware that he was cutting his own lifeline and after about ten swings the zip line suddenly snapped!

Newanda fell from the heavens onto the waiting back of the witless pig. With a squeal of terror the pig bolted down the trail with Newanda still on his back. Newanda was still in shock from his fall and he took a second too long to prepare for his first trial run in pig busting.

The momentum of the pig's sudden start caused Newanda to do a backwards somersault along the back of the hog. He reached out just in time to grab hold of the beast's tail. Now the pig was really terrified and took off screaming like an over-dramatic schoolgirl.

I'm not sure if it was shock or if Newanda really thought he could take down that pig, but he kept a tight grip on the tail and was dragged through the undergrowth. The pig made a tight turn next to a tree and knocked Newanda off of his tail and disappeared into the woods.

Dazed, Newanda was lying in a heap on the ground. I hurriedly climbed down from the tower to make sure Newanda was alive and no bones were broken.

The zip line was an epic failure, and in need a major repair. The shocked pig and his family had taken refuge deeper into the forest and were probably miles away. This gave Newanda and I time to gather supplies and weapons. Our arsenal of BB guns, spears, and homemade bows and arrows would make any hunter proud. We also brought wood and matches to build a fire on the top level. We ran home to get some food because no campfire would be complete without something to roast. The fire could also be used to cook some wild pork. Our log pole tower was now a fortified castle.

We waited for hours in hopes that the pigs would come around again. By evening we gave up waiting for the crazy pigs, and turned our attention to housebroken food. The time seemed right to get the fire going and roast some hot dogs. We figured the hot dogs were probably made with some pork meat and we imagined it was wild pig on a stick. We spent several minutes and used half a box of matches to get the fire going. We did our best to build the fire up to a roaring, hot dog burning, campfire. The moss and dirt layers did their job to protect the highest platform.

As the evening turned darker, we had no thought of what the neighbors might be seeing. We also didn't think our families might be looking for us. Our hotdog roasting fire gave off quite a glow as flames shot up into the night air. We were like a lighthouse ablaze in the wilderness with brilliant orange and yellows filling the sky. It was picture perfect as we sat roasting our hotdogs and singing a rousing rendition of "I'm a Fire Mountain Kaibo."

Moments later, Newanda's sixth sense kicked in, and he immediately stopped singing and sniffed the air. I looked up, and in the distance I saw lights sweeping through the forest. We also heard shouting and sirens bellowing in the distance. We were both wondering what the heck was happening, and why were interrupting our campfire?

As the lights came closer, I could hear my Dad's voice. He was arguing with my neighbor, Penny. She was going on and on about how this was her property and not only were we trespassing, but we were trying to burn her forest down. Dad tried to explain how we did not fully understand property boundaries and had exceptional fire safety skills.

I mouthed to Newanda, "Trespassing?" According to our logic, there were two groups that had claim to this land, the pigs and the two boys with the flaming tower!

Penny was a reclusive, chubby lady that lived across the way and always had a little too much to say. She assumed all children were of the devil, and that they existed only to torment her. She was always getting after us for catching her frogs or eating her apples. We often managed to land on her bad side.

As the fire died down, the firefighters packed up their gear. They got a good laugh at our flaming tower and complimented us on our successful platform fire. Everybody left except, Dad, us, Penny, and one cop. Penny kept going on about how she had a restraining order against us and how she was being forced to build a big fence to keep us out. The cop advised Dad to take us home and to stop bothering the crazy lady.

Our newly claimed territory was taken from us, and there wasn't a darn thing we could do. Our dreams of towers, swamp trails, and roast pigs had gone up in smoke. I guess Penny will have to find out for herself about the swamp trails and the infestation of wild hogs.

Chapter 8

### All Curdled Up

Despite the restraining order, we had several more opportunities to sneak back into the swamp trails. Those back wood trails led us to a lot of places, but sometimes you stumble across places that invite untold adventure.

On one particular day, we travelled to an unknown corner of the forest and could see an opening in the trees. The sun was shining like a spotlight on the clearing up ahead. The leaves shimmered a magnificent gold and surrounded the scene like a frame on a picture.

When we got to the edge of the clearing, our eyes opened wide in wonder and we were speechless. It was not a meadow or open field, but a giant three-acre lake. Maybe more like a pond, but still, it brought tears of excitement to our eyes. And then it happened, making the picture perfect moment even better, right next to a half submerged old stump, a fish jumped clean out of the water.

We were two young men hypnotized by the thought of getting on the water and catching the sneaky rainbow trout, and any other fish species that might be lurking in the depths. It took several minutes to wake from our daze.

We were overcome with excitement and explored the surrounding area for an access road. We found an old dirt road that connected to 186th Place. 186th Place was the next street over from ours. We had been down that road many times before, but had no idea of the paradise hidden within the nearby woods.

Sleep was hard to come by that night, as our minds were filled with thoughts of fish and boats. We had two goals, to catch fish and to make the ultimate watercraft to catch the big ones that make their home in the middle of the lake.

The next day we started gathering the logs to build the deck for the raft. We needed something to keep the logs together, and as usual, hay bale twine was in abundance. I'm not sure what kinds of logs are used in the movies, but our logs were a little different. They weighed a million pounds, none of them could float, and not a single one was straight. Washington State has acres of trees, but most of the trees are waterlogged and have to be dried for years before they become useful.

We were both concerned that when the raft hit the water, it would sink. To fix our floatation problem, I had the brilliant idea to gather up plastic milk jugs. Our families drank a lot of milk and that meant a lot of empty milk jugs! Surely, the neighbors would also have plenty of milk containers to throw out.

We walked from house to house asking for plastic milk containers and digging through people's garbage cans. Fortunately, people were throwing out old milk jugs left and right. I was a little surprised how many containers had old milk still inside. We didn't care whether they were empty or full, we needed jugs.

The jugs were terrific but we had to empty out the ones with milk in them before they were usable. The warm afternoon had a negative effect on the milk, and what was once liquid, was quickly changing over to a solid. The spoiled milk brought an ever-increasing audience of hungry, wild cats.

We had to find a good way to get rid of the rotten milk. Sour, curdled milk does not fit easily through the small opening of milk jugs. We tried shaking the globs out, but that took too long and only worked part of the time. Each time a glob was released, we were overwhelmed by a "destruction" of wild cats.

We were walking a thin line between dangerous and deadly, and so we thought water would be the next best plan. I held the hose inside the jug while Newanda turned on the water. The hose fit fairly tightly in the jug and water began to fill the container. I could see the curdles of milk loosening and swirling around with hardly any effort on my end.

As the jug filled up, I yelled over to Newanda to turn off the water. He couldn't hear me and the water kept flowing. The water reached the top, and because of the tight fit of the hose, the water began to blast out the sides of the top.

Looking straight down, I was blasted in the face with thousands of droplets of water mixed with small chunks of rotten milk. Gooey particles entered my nostrils, mouth, and other exposed openings. Immediately, my head was filled with the putrid smell.

Eventually, there was enough pressure in the milk jug that it shot across the yard and landed near the wild cats. Cats scattered in all directions to dodge the milk jug missile. I fell to my knees dry heaving from the milk and wailing from the shock of cold water. I had to get rid of the smell so I sprayed myself with the hose to remove the chunks that covered my clothes, hair, and face.

Newanda turned off the hose after finally hearing the wailing sounds of his best friend. I was sopping wet and utterly disgusted. Without a single word of explanation, I handed Newanda a chunk filled milk jug and the hose. Newanda knelt down to clean the jug and shot me a questioning look.

The instant I saw the hose nozzle inside the jug, I turned the hose on full blast. Just as the jug did with me, it began to fill up the plastic container and loosen the curdled milk. I watched the white little chunks speedily climb to the top. I may have heard a slight noise, something about "turn the water off." but I kept that water right on flowing. Like a volcanic explosion, the water and its milk chunks burst out of the jug and onto Newanda.

It was a different young man, but the outcome was the same. Newanda let out similar shrieks of disgust. I was laughing too hard to notice Newanda turn the hose on me. We both stood in puddles of smelly water and laughed as the cats began to sneak out of the nearby bushes and toward the unwashed milk jugs.

It only took two milk jug explosions to learn from our mistakes. We spent the next few hours taking turns holding the hose and washing out the jugs. We were both smothered in a gut-wrenching stench. But an hour or two into our cleaning project, we became like skunks unaware of our own rancid scent. As if nothing had ever happened, we went about our business of raft building and day dreaming of catching fish.

After the cleaning of the milk jugs, we started to lash all the raft logs together with our twine. The movies always make raft-building look much easier. The process of tying the logs together was a little awkward and proved to be more difficult than we anticipated. The logs did not fit together perfectly because they were wavy, different sizes, and full of randomly placed branches.

We did not have a garage or workbench to hold our raft off the ground. It was difficult to weave our string around the logs with the raft lying on the grass in the backyard. It was like trying to catch a wild cat in the old shed. They both left us frustrated, out of breath, and covered in bloody scratches.

After we got the raft tied together, our next job was to secure the milk jugs to the underside of the raft. With the raft laying on the grass it made attaching the milk jugs to the bottom almost impossible. Instead, we used our string to tie the jugs around the outside perimeter. Our raft was surrounded with milk containers that looked like the tassels of a Mexican sombrero. That is when we gave it the name Fransisco.

Our next big task was to hoist Fransisco onto an old wagon so we could get it to the pond. It took all our strength to lift one side. We heaved, pulled, and pushed the raft onto the wagon. It was halfway up when the wagon tipped over. The raft looked much like a lean-to shelter with milk jugs dangling down.

After several minutes, we succeeded in tipping the wagon back on to its four wheels. We shimmied one side of Fransisco back onto the wagon. Newanda pushed the raft while I pushed the side of the wagon to hold it in place. Inch by inch we succeeded in getting Fransisco centered on the wagon.

The weight of the raft caused the axles of the wagon to bend inward. The logs also extended well beyond the handle of the wagon. We were able to pull the wagon by crawling under the log raft and clasping the handle with both hands while we scooted backwards on our bottoms. One pushed the backend of the Fransisco, while the other pulled the handle from the front. The wagon began to move and with every step we were a little closer to the fish.

Chapter 9

"Jug or Not" Road Rafting

I pulled while Newanda pushed, and we began our mile trek down our driveway, across McElroy road, and up 186th Place. There was no need to push or pull going down the driveway. It was a matter of holding on for dear life while gravity took control. We both sat on the middle of Fransisco and dragged our feet using them as brakes to lessen our speed.

Things got a little crazier on the busy paved road. We were pulling and pushing as fast as we could, but we still created a line of frustrated cars and trucks behind us. As each vehicle passed us, the rubberneckers took the opportunity to stare at our moving pile of logs. We were like a float in a parade trimmed with a milk jug fringe.

A truck full of teenagers pulled up directly behind us and started honking like a gaggle of geese at feeding time. The driver was none other than Big Tony, and the truck was littered with his bonehead friends. Big Tony and his gang egged us on with their taunting.

We pushed with all our might to get off the road. Fransisco, already slightly unbalanced, began to wobble uncontrollably. Moments later, the front, right wheel of the wagon flew off and the wagon came to a screeching stop. The raft's momentum kept it moving forward and the wagon squirted out the back end.

There we were, in the middle of the road, standing next to a ton of heavy, wet logs and milk jugs, and nearby was the three wheeled wagon. Big Tony and his goons rolled by, half hanging out of their truck, laughing their tails off. They lingered for a minute before they hit the gas and were gone leaving behind a cloud of smoke. We wanted to lash back at the jerks, but we needed to focus on a bigger problem.

What do you do with a bunch of tied up logs in the middle of the road? How do you move a raft with a broken wagon?

There was now a longer line of cars behind us. Each frustrated driver had something to say as they rolled past.

"Go build your fort somewhere else!"

"Play somewhere else losers!"

"Stop blocking the road, you idiots!"

Some frustrated driver must have had called the cops because a policeman pulled up behind the beached raft with his lights flashing.

Over the loudspeaker, he yelled, "What the devil are you boys doing? You know, you boys can get a ticket for having an unlawful vehicle on the roadway!"

As the policeman walked over to us he was smiling and shaking his head. We could immediately tell he was there to help.

He mentioned, as he grabbed the wagon, "I too built a raft when I was your age. I named it Paco."

With a little chuckle in his voice, the policeman offered to help us load Fransisco back onto the wagon. He used his billy club to hammer the wheel back on. With three of us, we were able to shift the raft back onto our dilapidated transport. The kind officer gave us a police escort and we made our way to 186th Place.

We slowly trudged our way along 186th Place. The wheel fell off twice, but both times we managed to keep the Fransisco on top of the wagon. We used a rock each time to hammer the wheel on, and each time the wheel became a little more contorted. The teenagers and the policeman were long gone, but we still had some of the locals pass shaking their heads.

It took several hours to get from my house, down 186th place, and finally to the dirt path that lead to the lake.

The smooth asphalt and graded gravel were in the past. We groaned when we saw what lay ahead. "Ughhh! This could take forever!"

We had about two hundred yards of mud puddles, grass, and salmon berry bushes separating us from heaven.

Chapter 10

### Adrift and Almost Afloat on Secret Lake

After an hour of dragging, crashing, smashing, pulling, and rampaging through the grass, bushes, and puddles, we made our way to the water's edge. We were ready to set sail and wet our lines.

The mud was a lot deeper at the water's edge than we anticipated. As we pushed the raft off the wagon and into the water, the logs dug deep into the mud. The Fransisco was acting more like a plow than a boat. With every push, the front logs dug a deeper trench into the lake bottom. We gave one giant push and finally, the half submerged logs broke free from their muddy embrace and popped onto the surface of the water. The rest of the raft slid in without any trouble.

I gave a Newanda a high five as we both yelled, "We're so AWESOME!"

All of the sudden, we became concerned when we saw the logs separating slightly from each other. Thankfully, the lashings had only loosened and Fransisco was mostly intact. Our wet logs were floating without the assistance of the milk jugs. The milk jugs were now decorations around the outside edge.

We were satisfied that Fransisco was floating, but unsure how long it would stay afloat when we both boarded the vessel with our stuff. Trying it out could wait, because we had to return home to get our fishing gear. We took some old rope and tied the raft to a nearby tree. Our feet were flying and our bodies disregarded their exhausted state as we ran back home. The looming question was, "What sort of fishing tackle?"

The moment we stepped in the house, Mom yelled, "It's dinner time!"

I shouted back "Don't worry about dinner Mom, we're catching fish for supper tonight."

It took a few seconds to grab our gear. Our arms were overloaded with poles, nets, tackle boxes, worms, flies, salmon eggs, and anything else that might do the trick. The fish had no chance against us.

Our return back to the lake was even faster than the trip to the house. As we came to the water's edge, things looked a little different.

"Looks like it's not sitting as high in the water." I pointed out to Newanda.

He replied back, "Well, at least it's not a bunch of sunken logs at the bottom of the pond."

Newanda climbed on first, and immediately the place where he stood sunk down about six inches. I jumped onto the opposite end of the raft, which balanced both sides by also sinking down six inches. The entire log raft was under water, but was still holding us up. The old milk jugs were doing the their job, and not only keeping us afloat, but they encircled the raft like a garbage life preserver.

We both squatted down to keep the raft from wobbling and tied our poles, tackle boxes, and nets to the logs to ensure they would not float away. I grabbed a long stick and pushed Fransisco away from shore.

Our pushing stick was about 12 feet long. It was more a log than a stick, but was sufficient for the job. I jammed that stick into the gooey bottom and pushed off with all my might. We weren't exactly silent as we plowed through the water with our half submerged raft.

We headed straight towards the middle, and kept our eyes peeled for the slightest sign of fish movement. The water was a little colder than expected, but I don't think we were expecting to be in it. It didn't take long to get tired of squatting, and eventually we both just sat down with water covering our legs and lapping at our belly buttons.

Newanda navigated the way yelling out directions to go right, left, or straight.

"Full speed ahead!" Newanda called out, obviously enjoying himself.

I stabbed the stick through the water and deep into the mud, and then pushed off with a mighty heave. I developed quite a rhythmic pattern of stab and push, stab and push. With every push on the giant stick we propelled a little closer to the middle. As we got closer to the center the water became deeper and the stick was harder to control.

Unfortunately, I stabbed the stick too hard and it stuck deep into the mud. The stick did not budge and the raft kept going forward. I grunted in desperation as the pushing stick slipped from my grasp.

Newanda yelled out, "WHAT'D YOU DO JAMES?"

We both stared back at the pushing stick still protruding 2 feet above the water. We moaned in horror as we realized our watery fate. We were marooned in the middle of the lake, soaked to the bone, mosquitoes beginning to swarm, and the nighttime hours were pressing closer.

With our pushing stick gone, we made the best of our predicament and got out our fishing rods. We started with flies, the technique of choice for all expert fishermen. We slapped the water over and over until it had turned to a frothy mess. The fish were not interested in fake bugs.

Reluctantly, we reached for the night crawlers. Newanda immediately got a little nibble; just enough to let us know the lake was not empty of fish. I slowly reeled in my line, giving the end of the pole a little jiggle every couple of feet.

"That worm is alive, juicy, and ready for the taking." I chanted to the fish.

Just then, there was little jerk at the end of my line, and then it was gone. I stopped reeling, and jiggled the end of my pole to coax the fish for another strike. Reeling in a little more, tempting the fish, it hit with the force of a freight train. Not only was this a real strike, but this fish was hooked and on it's way in.

Skunked is the term used for any fisherman that did not catch a fish. I was not skunked! I held my 8-inch fish high and proud as it glinted in the sunset. It flipped left, then right, and slipped out of my grip into the middle of our swimming pool raft. It saw its chance to escape and slipped through the cracks of the logs to the deeper waters of its home.

Many expert fishermen practice the technique of "catch and release". Who was I to test waters of fate and break away from my destiny as a professional fisherman?

Just as I drifted back from my daydream of giant fish and a future career with piles of money, Newanda yells out, "I got one!" Newanda quickly hauled in his eight-inch prize and held it like a trophy.

We savored the moment with a mental snapshot and then, like other great fishermen, he released the trout back to its home. Now that we were both masters of fishing, we sat proudly on our raft full of water, and dropped our lines back in and waited for something bigger and better.

The sun sank into oblivion and dark tendrils of night slipped through the tops of the trees. The wind picked up and pricked our skin. It pushed Fransisco farther and farther from our blastoff point.

There was a chatter to be heard throughout the lake and it was not a wild animal or the cicadas in the trees. It was two very cold boys. We were shivering so hard; that we were sending ripples across the lake. Soon after, the squirrels began to jabber back at us.

The moon was rising in the eastern sky. We paused to take in the postcard moment as the moon reflected on the lake. However, our wet, cold bodies couldn't take any more. We had to get back before our body temperatures dropped and sent us both into a hypothermic comas.

I looked at Newanda and asked, "How do we get back to the shore?" We were stuck in the middle of the lake."

Newanda's teeth chattered as he replied, "I always wondered what it meant to be up a creek without a paddle."

We set our sights on the closest bank. Newanda kneeled on the left side, and I took the right. We set our poles down in the raft full of water, but left our lines dragging into the lake. We had high hopes that one last fish may take a bite before we ended our fishing expedition. Each of us had one arm dipping simultaneously in the water and paddling forward. At first, we made little progress, but as we gained a little momentum, the raft was visibly moving. The bank was creeping closer.

We kept paddling when my pole suddenly flew to Newanda's side of the raft and I lunged and grabbed a hold of the reel. A fish had grabbed my line and held on with an absolute death grip. With both of us on the same side, the raft was now completely out of balance. The weight shift sent my side flying up, and I rolled off the raft and into the water. Treading water and my rod still in hand, there was no chance I was going to lose this fish.

I grabbed hold of a milk jug. Newanda was yelling for me to hand him the pole.

"Not a chance! That fish is mine!" I screamed out as I struggled to keep my head out of the water.

I kept my hands and pole above water and desperately kicked my legs back and forth. Just as I was about to give up the fight with the fish, my feet hit something soft and gushy. Could it be that my feet could reach the bottom? I stopped kicking, and sunk down about six inches and stood flat on the soft mud. With my head underwater, and my pole in both hands, I could now reel the fish in.

When I needed air, I bobbed to the surface. I bobbed and reeled, bobbed and reeled as I took steps closer to shore. After several steps, my head was out of the water, and I could finish reeling in my prize. Newanda kept paddling Fransisco and wasn't far behind. The fish took one last jump as Newanda reached the shallows. Newanda grabbed the net and with one swoop ended the tug of war.

It was sure to be the biggest trout ever caught in the lakes and streams of Washington. The trout was at least a foot long and had the strength of a crocodile. We pulled the raft into shore and gathered up our gear. Newanda stood at my right and we puffed out our chests in pride. With the fish in the net, Fransisco at the edge of the water, and the moon at our backs, it was a photo shoot moment.

The walk home was a little uncomfortable. We were soaked, cold, and pulling a broken wagon that was teeming with fishing gear, not to mention, a great big trout hung on a string from my belt loop. It could have been worse; we could have been hauling a gigantic waterlogged raft. We decided to leave Fransisco and give him a permanent home in the pond. He would provide a fine expedition vessel for other passing explorers or fishing enthusiasts.

When I finally made it to my front door, I took off most of my muddy clothes and walked inside with the big trout.

Nobody asked, "Where were you? What happened to you? Why are you half naked?"

Mom said in a matter of fact voice, "James go get dressed, you can't go running around in your skivvies."

I gave her a hug, handed her the fish, and went to bed.

Chapter 11

### Field of Fire

A few years back, Dad hired a guy with a bulldozer to clear our backfield. The idea was to make pasture land for a few cows to roam and feed. Things didn't happen exactly the way Dad had planned. Money was tight and the cows did not come.

Dad let nature take over the field. During the next three years, wild grass, salmon berry bushes, elderberry trees, small alder trees, blackberry vines, stinging nettle, and other miscellaneous plants eventually filled in the bare ground. The small trees reached up about twenty or thirty feet, and were covered with grass and viney bushes. The summer heat had dried the grass and plants, and the field was ripe for a good burning. We had heard of several people burning their fields to promote new plant growth, and to get rid of the invasive weeds.

Newanda and I had plans of our own with the vacant field. Dad and our neighbor, Penny, made it quite clear that we were no longer welcome in the swamp trails. This was a grand opportunity; the backfield would make a perfect bike track. We just needed to clear it again.

There were good things about the field and all the overgrowth. It was a great habitat for the rabbits, opossums, raccoons, wild turkeys, coyotes, birds, and squirrels. This was optimal hunting ground for a couple of boys and a BB gun. However, the thick undergrowth made it impossible for any human to get close to the animals.

Our plan would be to make a bike trail that would also give us access to the animals. We'd make trails around the trees and bushes, giving the animals and us great places to roam and play. Our minds were filled with visions of bikes racing through the field while animals darted across the bike trails. It would be a perfect a paradise for boys and animals.

We thought the easiest way to clear the brush was with fire; this is called a "prescribed burn." We knew about safety measures, and we weren't going to take any chances of our fire getting out of control. Rarely does a real forest fire fighter ever use water, so we gathered the more appropriate tools. We were armed with matches, axes, and shovels.

We had both spent time on the mountain earning money for scout camp. My uncle taught us how to build a firebreak, which is to dig trenches around the forest to stop any fires from spreading. We were confident in our abilities to create, contain, and stop any fires.

To get the fire going, we grabbed some matches and lit some of the grass close to the fence line. A piece of grass would catch fire, but the soft, green chutes under the grass were still too wet to maintain the flame. We needed something that would stay burning long enough to start the bigger bushes on fire.

We noticed an old plastic grocery bag, and remembered burning plastic pop bottles in the burn barrel. The plastic withered and dropped flaming chunks all over the ground. I decided to try burning the bag. I lit the sack and immediately flames engulfed it and began dripping melted plastic to the ground. The burning plastic pieces continued to smolder for several seconds. We had found our fire starter.

I ran home and gathered up a wad of grocery sacks from the kitchen drawer. We tied the sacks to some sticks that we held in our hands. After lighting the bags, we'd walk along the edge of the fence, dripping flaming plastic along the way.

We did it! We had set flame to the entire west side of the field. Just as we had seen it work on T.V. and at nearby farms, the fire was burning the old, dry grass, thick brush, and small trees. It left behind a perfect layer of blackened green grass chutes.

With nothing for the fire to eat on the edge of the field, the fire moved toward the unburned grass and trees in the middle. Leaning back on our shovels, we let the fire do its job. We stopped and admired our handy work.

I yelled out, "Dad's gonna be so happy we cleared the field!"

Newanda nodded in agreement and pointed to the fire, which had made its way to the middle of the field and was ready to take on the vine encased trees.

We did not realize how quickly the fire would catch to the vines twisted around the small trees. The top of the tree ignited like a matchstick. It was explosive as the tree was instantly shriveled to a crisp. The flames reached higher and higher, and before we knew it, the flames were forty feet high. They pointed straight to the sky, but change was in the air.

The fire began to sway slowly to the left, and then to the right. The flames felt the breeze before we did. A bigger gust took us by surprise. It was as if the fire had invited the wind to suddenly come and play, and play that fire did.

Like a giant hand clawing for its next victim, the fire spread quickly from one tree to another. Surprised by the fire's frenzy, we looked at each other, and then looked at the shovels. We sprung into action and started shoveling dirt on one of the trees. Dirt flew like popcorn from a scared girl at a horror movie.

The dirt didn't do much to stop the fire, so we grabbed the axes, and started whacking away at nearby trees. We were trying to cut down the trees before they ignited. We had seen wilderness fire fighters do the same with chainsaws, and hoped our efforts would slow the fire's fury. We were surprised that fire had grown from something that we could barely keep going, to a large and unruly beast.

Rarely do you get to a point in your life where things get hot enough that you've got to take a step back. We were in the middle of the field, and the trees surrounding us were 40-foot torches filling the sky with ash and smoke.

To the north the neighbors had a large, open, grassy field. To the east was a forest with gigantic alder, spruce, and cedar trees. To the west was a field similar to the one on fire. To the south, was our house, separated by the grassy side yard.

The fire was moving northeast. All we could do was keep on throwing dirt, cutting trees, and sending a little prayer to the heavens that the big alder trees would stand strong and wet against the hungry fire.

We kept shoveling and chopping away to keep the fire under control. We were unaware of the worry and panic we had caused our neighbors. Someone had called the fire department to tame the "out of control" flames. Neighbors were spraying their fields and digging firebreak lines to save their property.

We were hard at work and so we were oblivious to the fire trucks, sirens, and the gathering neighbors. The firemen watched for a few minutes and could see we had a solid grip on the situation. They hung back and supervised our efforts for several more minutes.

Our prayers were answered as the fire began to die down when it hit the wet grass and the green forest. There were pockets of little flames here and there and a lot of smoke everywhere. We took a step back and finally noticed the crowd of neighbors and fire trucks. The angry faces of our neighbors and a thumbs up from the fireman encouraged us to continue to attack the small flames until the field was fully extinguished.

The fire was dead and the field was now clear of old grass and brambles. We were covered in black soot and sporting singed hair. The two of us stood tall and proud as we looked over our work. Newanda slapped me on the back sending plumes of dust and ash into the air.

We headed out the gate with axes and shovels propped over our shoulders. When we got to the edge of the field, the Fire Chief called us over. We nervously walked toward the crowd of people gathered around the fire truck; their expressions didn't carry the same sentiment of pride that we were originally feeling. The neighbors, with expectant scowls on their faces, waited for the fire chief to scold us.

We overheard the fire chief say to one neighbor, "They didn't break any law."

The Chief turned to us and said, "That was quite the show you both put on. It's nice to see people who understand the importance of a controlled burn."

Dad was also there amongst the crowd. I think they were waiting for Dad to say something, and he did. "Thanks for burning the field boys, I've been wanting to do that all summer."

Chapter 12

### Tragedy at the Cinema

Not a lot of action occurred in the outskirts of our little city, and sometimes we'd long for the bright lights of downtown. Fridays and Saturdays, when we could get a ride into town or cruise down the windy road on our bikes, we'd look for excitement at the Olympic movie theatre.

The Olympic theatre was a one-theatre movie house that was built about two hundred years ago. With tattered carpet and sticky floors, it was a classic hang out for anyone looking for a night of action. It did seem to have a special attraction to fifth through ninth graders. The older kids got the back seats, to do what older kids do, and we were stuck with the "pain in the neck" front seats to catch a flick. It didn't matter, rarely were we there to watch a movie.

The tickets inside were reasonable, but the candy and refreshments were outrageously priced. The sensible thing to do was to take the two-block jaunt to the Safeway and find some snacks. It was not legal to take outside food in the movie theatre, so we either filled our pockets and tried to hide the evidence, or we ate the goodies before we got inside. Buying refreshments at the Safeway was commonplace and practiced by almost all movie patrons.

The Safeway parking lot was scattered with teenage moviegoers who had bulging pockets and purses. I had found my favorite candy, and had one pocket of my cut off jeans filled to the brim with a three-pound bag of Skittles.

The walk back to the theater was a show in itself. There were groups of teenagers huddled up and smoking cigarettes, giving each other high fives, making fun of the younger kids, and checking each other out. They lined the sidewalk in anticipation for the movie.

We eventually made it to the theater and entered the ornate front doors. Nervously, we made it through the ticket line with the cashier constantly glancing down at my bulging pocket.

I blurted out, "Just brought my rain poncho along, just in case it rains."

"Uh huh, yeah...right." said the cashier as she waved me in.

I didn't feel good about fibbing to the lady, but I felt worse about paying through the nose at the concession counter. We found our way into the dim lit theater and passed rows of rowdy teenagers. We trekked to our usual spots near the screen. Newanda and I had our eyes out for that special lady, one who may want to share a Skittle or two. We found a spot behind several cute girls lining the first row.

I proudly fetched my three-pound bag of Skittles from my pocket. I stayed standing and began pulling at both sides of the bag to prove two things: One, to show the world I had a huge bag of Skittles, and two, to flaunt my strength to the nearby ladies.

I winked at the cute girls as I started pulling opposite sides of the bag to access my Skittles. I usually had no problem opening things, but this bag was not cooperating.

I caught the eye of one particular girl, and gave her a head nod and said, "Hey..."

Proving my strength would take a little more gumption. I pulled a little harder, not wanting to tear a corner with my teeth like most people. The bag did eventually open, but not exactly as planned. It was one of those slow motion moments that has continued to haunt me in my dreams.

My Herculean like strength was too much for the Skittles bag. Instead of slowly opening on each side, the entire bag ripped apart from seam to seam. It was a Skittle explosion as three pounds of rainbow colored candies flew into the air, and scattered like shrapnel in all directions.

In total dismay, I yelled out in front of the on looking crowd, "Nooooooo!"

Skittles showered the floor, the chairs, and the people around us, including the fine young ladies in the front row. Skittles hit the floor like a million marbles were suddenly let loose. For the moment, my life was in slow motion, and I could see the individual faces of all the theater occupants. I groaned as I recognized Big Tony and his gang.

At first there were faces of unbelief and sounds of sympathy, but within milliseconds the noise changed to an eruption of laughter. Not just a simple chuckle, but a full on "I'm gonna start crying", "pee my pants", "and hold my belly laughter." Soon my Skittles were scattered and came to rest on the sticky floor. Defeated, I sank down into my seat, the lights turned down, and the movie previews started.

Things quieted down as the movie previews got underway. It was my last chance to catch the attention of the pretty girls in the front. I wasn't going to let a little humiliation stop me from wooing them.

My plan for enticing the girls with Skittles was a major fail. It was becoming obvious that they were not interested in my candy. They kept flicking the little candies off their clothes and out of their hair. Each time they flicked one, their lips curled in mock disgust and they blurted out, a little "ew." I'm not sure why they were so annoyed; they just got a bunch free candy thrown at them.

Newanda didn't have much interest in girls yet, but he was always suave and knew what to say to them. I rarely had any idea what to say. Newanda kept nudging my side with his elbow, telling me to say something.

I figured I didn't have anything left to lose since my pride lay scattered on the floor. I squeaked out, "Hey ladies." They were giggling and talking and obviously didn't hear me. I pulled out my best James Bond impression and said louder, "Hey ladies!"

They all turned and looked at me with curious horror. My James Bond impression was not working, so I blurted out the only thing I could think of, "Ummm... I caught a giant bullfrog today."

The girls looked at each other and let out a unified, "EW!!!"and started laughing.

Newanda shook his head at me. "That was the best line you've got? You sure won them over."

I'll admit, I didn't always have a good line on hand, but at least I had the guts to try. I was mighty proud of the bullfrog I caught earlier, and that alone made the day pretty darn good.

The Skittles weren't completely gone, I found several pieces of candy on the surrounding seats. Normally, I wasn't one to scrounge, but there were places where the Skittles had piled up and protected each other from the sticky film that covered the floor. I probably was not the first to eat candy off the floor and I wouldn't be the last.

Newanda however, refrained from chowing on the scattered candy. He was busy trying to look cool and catch the attention of the girl in yellow. He was singing some song about being "dressed in yellow, she says hello, come sit next to me you fine fellow."

Newanda's quiet serenades were not doing the trick and he let his voice trail off. The movie was starting so we both sat back and accepted defeat with enjoying the company of girls and the taste of candy. Our seats were close enough to the front that we had to slouch all the way down until our heads rested on the back of the seats to properly see the screen.

We weren't more than five minutes into the show when my tummy began to rumble and I broke out in a cold sweat. Something wasn't quite right, and the aches and pains were causing me to squirm like a jellyfish. I was in total discomfort when I felt it coming. No it wasn't diarrhea, but it was a giant gas bubble.

Something with the Skittles or maybe Mom's casserole may have turned my insides into gas vapor. I couldn't hold it in any longer, and my squirming was beginning to be noticed. With all the strength I could muster, I let one slide without a sound. It was a toot that defined the phrase, "Silent but deadly."

My body felt better at first, but it only took seconds for the smell to permeate the surrounding area. Newanda looked at me with a face of terror. I held my body rigid and faced the movie screen as if nothing had happened. It wasn't just Newanda who became restless, but the young ladies in front of us started to fidget and look around.

"Ewww!" They all whispered.

"Who chose this spot anyway?" one of the girls grumbled.

There were several empty seats on each side of us, and Newanda slithered over to a spot five seats down from me. The girls in front grabbed their shirts and sweaters and were holding them over their noses and faces. The girl in yellow began to cough and dry heave.

That's when my tummy began to rumble again. I squirmed for a minute, but realized the damage was done, and there was no use trying to hold the rest in. The timing was perfect, and without further ado, I let another monster slide. "Whoever smelt dealt it....Whoever made the rhyme did the crime...Whoever flamed it blamed it..." and so on.

After five or six stinkers my stomach felt a lot better. The girls had long since left, and Newanda migrated back towards his original seat beside me. The teenagers in the room began to chatter as the smell drifted its way throughout the rest of the theater.

"Do you smell that?"

"Oh my gosh, what reeks?"

"Dude, was that you?"

The stench, despite being incredibly strong, was quickly absorbed in the rest of the theater smells. The theater was full of stinky teenagers, popcorn, strong perfumes, colognes, and body odor of a hundred other kids.

Sometimes you have to decide whether to hold them in or let them loose. I had no candy, no girls, and no reason to be uncomfortable. I let them go to enjoy the show.

The lights low, a boring movie, and a comfortable seat adds up to one thing; I drifted off to peaceful slumber in the middle of the show. My body has always run like a cheetah, move as fast you can while you can, and when things slow down, take a nap. With my head laid back on the seat, my mouth wide open, I was dreaming of beautiful girls feeding me Skittles. Suddenly, one of the girls was hitting me in the face.

I woke to Newanda flicking my nose and whispering, "Dude, you're snoring is louder than the movie!"

I tried to stay awake, but within a minute or two, I was back in dreamland in search of my lost Skittles.

Towards the end of the movie, there was quite a crowd gathered around me as I snored to my hearts content. Big Tony and his gang thought it would be funny to find candy on the floor and take turns throwing it into my mouth. They'd hit my nose, teeth, other parts of my head, and occasionally one or two made their way inside my gaping lips. I was dreaming about swallowing flies, and mosquitoes that were attacking my face. With my hands flailing, I kept batting the Skittle bugs away.

Newanda, who should have been there to protect me, was now several rows back to get away from the snoring and Big Tony.

Always prepared for a prank, Big Tony was armed with a can of shaving cream. He squirted a bunch in my hand, pulled a long hair out of his mullet, and tickled my face with it. As if there was a pesky mosquito tickling my cheek, I slapped my head. The shaving cream splattered all over the nearby seats and me. To the dismay of the laughing bullies, it would take more than a little shaving cream to wake me up.

One of the boys took one last shot at my mouth with a yellow Skittle. The Skittle went straight down my throat. I woke up with a violent heaving cough as I struggled to take a breath. As a reflex, my body stood up and I hacked up the Skittle with such force, it flew and hit the movie screen.

Having no idea what just happened, I looked around and saw Big Tony and his goons hanging around me. They all were holding their mouths and quietly laughing as they slinked back to their seats.

Someone from the back yelled, "Sit down!"

I quickly sat down and looked for Newanda. He was nowhere to be found, I figured he was in the bathroom, sitting with some chicks, or checking out the concession stand, so I sat back to enjoy the rest of the show.

I had awakened just in time for the final climax of the movie. It was by far the best part; of course it was the only part I actually watched. When the lights came on, I walked out with a wet shoulder, the smell of Old Spice, and little white crusty things on my hair and face. Newanda was waiting for me in the foyer.

We exited the building and Newanda laughed, saying, "Dude, watching you is better than watching the movie."

Chapter 13

### All Puffed Up

" _Revenge isn't for everyone. It is a fiery and explosive business."_

Living in the country, there was always something to be done outside and around the property. Dad taught the value of hard work and service, and if someone needed something, he rounded up Newanda and me to help out. Dad expected each of us to do our part without complaint. It did not take much coaxing from him, usually a small threat of a swat on the backside or a kick in the pants. Generally, we were happy to go and show off muscular abilities.

It was usually grunt work, and we knew how to cut and stack wood, move boxes, clear land, dig trails, and buck hay better than most. Some jobs we grew to like better than others, and my preferred choice was mowing the lawn.

We always had two or three old lawn mowers around the property. None of them would start with the first pull and I had to employ my mechanic skills. After fiddling with the carburetor, spark plug, starter cord, and fuel system for several minutes and offering some sort of blood sacrifice to the lawn mower gods; a lawn mower would fire up.

I mowed everything I could access around the property. Our lawn area slowly but surely crept further into the forest. Blackberry bushes, salmon berry bushes, cattails, and small trees were all casualties of my lawn mowing escapades.

I kept the grass and dandelions cut short and tidy. The uneven mounds of dirt and sod were systematically scalped to make the lawn a little more even. With the return of the wet weather, brown sections of shaved dirt would vanish under a carpet of new grass and clover.

I was mowing the back lawn, trying to keep the relentless blackberry vines from advancing. I mowed around the garbage burn barrel and from there I could see that grass and bushes had taken over the old hauling trailer. The trailer once was the bed of a broken down, dilapidated truck.

It had a steel tongue attached to the front with a ball coupler to hitch it onto a real truck. The tongue was in a "V" shape, and made from two rectangular hollow steel beams that were welded to the front corners of the truck bed. The tailgate was rusted shut, and holes dotted the trailer from front to back. The original color was a mystery, but the rust gave it a reddish, brown tone. I'm not sure where Dad had found this gem, but old truck beds were common in the area and Dad was good at collecting them.

The grass and weeds had overrun the area under the "V" shaped tongue. It took some effort, but with my left hand I lifted the front of the trailer, and with my right hand I maneuvered the lawn mower under the trailer to cut the weeds. I had mowed under the trailer several times before, and this time was no different.

I was making my final swipe at the weeds when something flashed before my eyes. There was also a low hum, although faint, it could still be heard over the lawn mower. I thought nothing of it, until a short second later I was sucker punched in the throat.

I screamed like a little girl. With one motion, I pulled out the lawn mower and dropped the front of the trailer. I shrieked in pain as the second bullet like creature pelted my forehead. I was overwhelmed and outnumbered as a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth shot blasted my face.

I left the lawn mower and ran. The hornets were in hot pursuit as they followed my every step. The swarm of vengeful hornets engulfed my face and continued their death march, as I searched for safety. My arms were flailing as I made feeble attempts to swat at the hornets. I screamed and sprinted away from the swarm and around to the front of the house.

My frantic cries were heard from the inside, and Mom poked her head out the door to see the commotion. "What's wrong with you?"

"Bees!" I screamed, still batting at my face.

I reached the front flowerbed and Mom turned the garden hose on the swarm. The hornets lost interest and left me alone. Swollen from multiple hornet bites to the face, I crumpled to the ground in pain as Mom continued to spray me down with the hose until she was sure they were all gone.

Mom came over to assess the damage. I took one shot to the throat, one to the forehead, one to my top lip, two to my cheek, and one just above my left eye. As they started to swell up, the hornet stings had a major impact on my eye and upper lip. My eye was half closed, and my lip and tongue were numb.

The other bites were like giant, red, swollen zits not quite ready to explode. With my deformed face, my inability to see straight, and my slurred speech, I had the look of a decaying jack o lantern with mold spewing out of the mouth and eye.

Mom painted my face pink with Calamine lotion and gave me some ice to suck on and said, "You'll be fine, suck on these for a while."

I sat on the porch contemplating my survival of a vicious attack from a trailer-load of hungry hornets. I knew my body would eventually heal, but my pride was severely damaged. My mind was flooded with thoughts of vengeance. These insects would pay for my pain and suffering.

I rounded up Newanda and managed to get the message across, "I'the bane athacked bythe hornethes."

The message out my mouth was unclear, but a stronger message was written all over my swollen face. Newanda read my thoughts and became my mouthpiece; a plan was brewing for full revenge on the hornet's nest.

First we went back to the old truck bed trailer to get a better idea of the magnitude of the nest and take note of weak points in their defense system. The hornets were protected from every side except the front. The nest had filled the hollow cavity of the steel beams on the trailer.

As we crept closer, we saw the occasional hornet as it patrolled over the battlefield. It buzzed over and around us as if it were challenging us to step into combat. We weren't ready for war; we were still outgunned and outnumbered. We decided to hang back and not disturb the entire colony.

Chapter 14

### Reverberations

" _Revenge isn't for everyone. It is a fiery and explosive business."_

We decided we would need explosives, and only one place would provide the illegal firepower to destroy the enemy. Newanda exclaimed, "Thunder Alley! Those hornets will have no idea what hit them!"

Thunder Alley was a combustible, shack town built on the Indian Reservation. It's a whole city of plywood stalls built for the sole purpose of selling fireworks. The locals would barter with the customers over firecrackers and bottle rockets and drink away their profits. It was a pyromaniac's paradise. With ten bucks, you could buy enough bottle rockets and firecrackers to last most the year.

Mom overheard our plan, tossed me twenty dollars and said, "Go pick up a bunch of fireworks for the family."

We hitched a ride with Uncle Willy and our cousins to get to Thunder Alley. I like to go with my cousin Cami Sue, she was a little beauty queen that knew how to turn the heads of the locals and therefore acquire more fireworks.

I wasn't exactly a handsome devil, in fact with my disfigured face and slurred speech; I might turn some heads the wrong direction. On the other hand, I could possibly get some sympathy discounts.

We set out to find the needed firecrackers, and unlike years past, our purpose was more than having fun and blowing up cow pies and slugs. We were on a mission for all out revenge.

The Native Americans had access to everything, and one little shack shone like a beacon and seemed to understand my desperation to acquire the best. Their shack was called the Blazing Hornets Nest. It was fate and I made a beeline right for it.

I bought a gross of bottle rockets, some roman candles, and 1000 Mighty Mites. Newanda blew his money on five super deluxe cannon aerials. The aerials were two-inch cannonball mortars that shot straight out of a tube and were supposed to be set off by expert pyro-technicians. We had been setting off fireworks for years, and we considered ourselves to be experts.

As I turned to leave, the older man with an eye patch and a swollen, disfigured lip got up and handed me a handful of special fireworks. He quietly said, "Blast the $%&@ out of em!"

It was no accident that I was brought to the Blazing Hornets Nest. The old man did not have to tell his story, and I did not share mine. Our hatred for hornets was mutual, and his generosity created a brother like bond between us.

I glanced at the new fireworks, and in dark, bold letters I read, "M-1000." He had given me enough firepower to blow the entire trailer to pieces.

With a droopy eye, swollen face, and a deformed mouth, I looked straight into his dark eyes and said, "Theyth don'th standth a chanceth."

I gave him the twenty-dollar bill and turned away with a swollen grin.

Newanda had his small bag of mortars, and Cami Sue came walking up with multiple bags of fireworks being carried by two young men. Even with my connection to the old man in the Blazing Hornets Nest, she still walked away with twice as many fireworks as we had.

With every passing hour my face was a little less swollen and the constant stream of drool off the left side of my mouth had dried up. The pain had started to fade, however, the venomous sting of vengeance spread to all portions of my body like poison in my blood.

Uncle Willy dropped us off and wished us luck with the hornets. My cousins Cami Sue and Bobby thought we were crazy and didn't want any part of the madness.

I could sense a bit of hesitancy in Newanda. In my mind, everything was black and white. The hornets had attacked me without provocation.

One might say, "They were protecting their home and territory."

I would follow that with, "I was merely beautifying their territory."

Some might say, "Turn the other cheek."

I say, "I turned the other cheek and got blasted."

Some might say, "Let bygones be bygones."

I say, "An eye for an eye!"

We marched straight to the backyard and dumped our stash of fireworks twenty feet from the old truck bed trailer.

We used a piece of plywood, some old bricks, a few logs, and a bunch of rocks to build a protective fort. We hoped it would deter any hornets from entering into our turf. We added a gas can filled with 2 gallons of unleaded lawn mower fuel to our arsenal.

Our plan was: 1. Dowse the area with gas. 2. Place the M-1000's strategically around the nest. 3. Use the firecrackers and bottle rockets to persuade any surviving hornets to find a new home.

We used a Dixie cup to throw the gas all over the front of the trailer. Newanda got his first taste of the hornet's fury when he tried to toss the gasoline inside the rectangular entrance.

A hornet dive bombed Newanda in mid toss and popped him square between the eyes. The hornet was alone and died like a World War II kamikaze pilot.

Newanda, in pain, howled, "Just you wait you psychotic hornets! I'll show you CRAZY!!!"

With the gasoline splattered around, it was time to place the M-1000's. I crawled army style to each side of the tongue of the trailer and shoved the M-1000's in between the grass and the metal. More hornets came out to investigate and hovered over my head and around my face, but my determination for revenge never wavered. Despite several close calls, I was not stung by the patrolling bees and I was able to crawl safely back to the fort.

Our debris wall was lined with bottle rockets aimed perfectly at the entrance to the hive. We spent the next several minutes twisting the fuses of four little firecrackers together. We had over 100 twisted firecracker bombs ready to light and throw. We crouched behind our wall and examined our handy work.

Both of us smiled and looked forward to the upcoming battle. It was a pyromaniac's dream, and a hornet's ultimate nightmare. The old man from the Flaming Hornet's Nest firework stand would have been proud.

My older sister came outside to nose around and question us about the fireworks and the fort. We told her about our plan to blow up the hornet's nest. With a quick assessment, she suspected there would be a show with the possibility of two boys being blown up. She had called some of her girlfriends to watch me "Get blown up." This was a personal event, and we didn't need an audience, but at the same time, we were awfully proud of our explosive set up.

Of course my sister's friends called their friends and before we knew it, there were over twenty rowdy teenagers gathered around the back porch. Everyone was drinking sodas and passing around popcorn as the countdown began for our ignition time of 4:00 PM. The hornets would be less active in the late afternoon and Dad wouldn't be home from work yet. We didn't want to risk his disapproval and possible shutdown of our operation.

At 3:58 and the only thing we needed was a match. I ran into the house and searched high and low, but found nothing. Glinting in the light of the laundry room, on the top shelf was a lighter. I grabbed the lighter and ran outside. The moment had arrived for the hornets to meet their maker.

Using the lighter meant I had to get closer than I wanted. I laid on the ground with my arm stretched forward and attempted to light the lighter. There was no flame, but the flint and steel spark was enough to ignite the gasoline.

"KABOOM!!!!"

It was spontaneous combustion at it's best. The gasoline had turned that trailer into a nuclear inferno. Flames blew past and around me at 1000 miles per hour. The massive ball of fire singed my eyebrows and all other exposed hair, but left my skin bright red.

I ran back to the debris pile and took cover. Popcorn and soda flew into the air as the audience took refuge and cowered under the back porch.

Newanda broke into a Johnny Cash song as we watched the trailer become completely engulfed in flames. "I fell into a burning ring of fire."

My sister and her friends did not realize that the gasoline was only step one in the plan. My hair was still smoking and giving off a rank smell when the first M-1000 went off.

It was louder and bigger than I imagined. The first M-1000 went off with a deafening bang, and the second, third, and fourth were quickly to follow.

The force of the explosion flipped the old trailer on its back end. Rusty pieces of metal were flying in all directions. My sister and her friends either stayed under the porch or ran in the house. Their jokes and taunts were silenced with the ensuing battle. Surrounding trees and bushes were decked with flames and shrapnel. That was only the beginning of our wild battle.

After the bomb attack there was still a low hum in the air. The sound grew louder as more hornets gathered their wits. The attack had left many enemy casualties, but to our surprise the evil hornets were pouring out of the steel beams and forming a swarm. Enemy scouts were on the lookout, and it was only a matter of time before our position was compromised.

Phase two was now in full swing. We spent the next several minutes lighting bottle rockets and throwing firecrackers. With every explosion, the hornets would scatter, but just as quickly, they would muster their forces again. We lit more than a hundred bottle rockets and at least that many firecrackers.

Without warning, a stinging shot hit me behind my right ear. A sniper had come from behind and attacked while our attention was diverted towards the trailer.

We didn't know if we were winning or losing. We needed something bigger, better, and with a wider spread of explosives. Newanda wanted to save his cannon mortars for his mom's night display, but we needed something fast. The enemy had locked in on our positions, and we were constantly being dive bombed and buzzed from all directions. Even my sister and her friends would let out squeals of terror as hornets made their way to the distant porch.

Newanda set up the cannon and aimed it at the trailer. The cannon ball mortar was shoved down inside with a long fuse hanging out the end. I lit the fuse while Newanda held the cannon in place. The first shot fired and the cannon ball hit its intended target, but it bounced off the trailer, and landed on the charred grass in between us.

The cannon balls are meant to travel 150 feet before exploding, and the twenty-foot trip to the trailer was not quite far enough for a safe detonation.

We both yelled, "OH NOOOOOOO!"

We dived deeper behind our barricade and covered our heads. We waited only a second before the mortar exploded and sent a massive barrage of sparks in all directions.

It worked! The blast had taken out a number of swarming hornets, and it was obvious we had them on the run.

With ringing in my ears, I screamed out, "Sweet! Let's reload!"

We filled the cannon with four mortars to finish the hornets off for good.

The cannon was in perfect position while Newanda and I held it in place. The first blast sent a shower of sparks shooting backwards. Startled by the flare we both let go and took cover. The cannon fell backwards and flipped with the open end facing the back porch.

Milliseconds later, the second shot went off. The unsuspecting teenagers were caught off guard as the mortar rocketed towards them and exploded at their feet. Girls and boys alike were screaming and diving into the nearby blackberry bushes.

Unfortunately for them, two more shots came bolting out of the cannon with a deafening blast and a shower of fire and sparks. The air was filled with smoke and soot and riddled with cries for help from all the wounded.

"Your brother is crazy!"

"I'm gonna kill those kids!"

"My hair!"

Newanda and I could sense the clear and present danger from all sides. Newanda motioned to me and quietly said, "Let's get out of here."

It was time to retreat to the woods.

Chapter 15

### Tree Trouble

We knew the trails better than anyone, and headed straight towards the giant, old cedar tree. We had a climbing rope attached to one of the highest branches. We could hear the teenagers crashing through the forest.

My sister Betsy was yelling down the trail, "Wait till I get my hands on you. I know where you sleep!"

From our hiding spot, we heard other teenagers ranting to each other, "My hair, look what they did to my hair!" "I'm gonna tear those psychos apart!"

Unnoticed, we shimmied up the rope and pulled it up after us. We climbed as high we could go and watched the circus down below. Several times, the teenagers would pass under us, muttering curse words. Two girls held each other with soot covered faces and tears streaming down their cheeks. I'll admit, seeing their hair snarled with several burned clumps made me feel a little bad.

It was a time of big hair and lots of hair spray. The teenage girls with their wild hair were walking fire hazards. Once again, we were stuck in a tree. This time with teen wolves circling the area below.

I shrugged and said to Newanda, "I guess we better get comfortable."

With hours of battle against the hornets and running away from the teenagers, there was no time to eat or use the bathroom. We knew we could survive without food for an hour or two, but there was no way I could wait to drain my bladder. I had to pee like a racehorse, and the way Newanda was fidgeting, he was also feeling the urge.

By now most of the teenagers had called off the dogs and left the forest. There was one persistent older kid that kept passing by the tree. It was as if he could sense something was up. He was a jerk and bully, and was insistent on tormenting younger kids. He liked my sister, but even she thought he was an idiot.

We had to do it. Without out a word, we zipped down our flies and let it go. Instantly, he looked up with the sound of "psssss", his face was met with two showers of liquid.

"What the?" His face went from surprise to pure terror as he tasted, smelled, and recognized the golden rain from above. "Siiiiick!!"

We were sitting ducks, and the big jerk knew our exact location. Swear words, threats, and screams of frustration spewed out of his mouth like barf. He left for a few minutes, only to return with several others. Our actions had not detoured the teenagers, but had fanned the flame of revenge against us.

It was almost dark, and their attempts to hit us with sticks and rocks were way off the mark. Somebody had the wise idea to build a campfire under the tree. We held fast to the tree and hoped our parents would come looking for us for dinner.

The teenagers brought drinks, blankets, and one of the boys pulled out a guitar. They talked about weird stuff, sipped on their sodas, sang, and laughed for a while. We couldn't help but notice the odd aroma coming from below. The smell was a mixture of gunpowder, smoke, burned hair, cheap cologne, body odor, and a little bit of urine.

The whole experience was surreal and exhausting. We were hungry, thirsty, and tired, so we hunkered down knowing this could be a long night.

After several hours, the ruckus below began to break up. Some were worried about curfews; others were tired of the whole situation and wanted to go home. Newanda leaned against the tree trunk and dozed; I didn't dare for fear of falling out of the tree.

I was a little surprised that none of our parents came looking for us and I had no idea where my older sister had ended up. She wasn't at the campfire and apparently did not tell our folks about us. They rarely worried because we were often at the other one's house or exploring in the woods. It wasn't bad to be forgotten, it meant we were free to have our adventures. But, just this once, it would have been nice to see the watchful eyes of Mom and Dad.

When all the teenagers were gone and the campfire was nothing but coals, we dropped the rope and slid down to the ground. We turned to each other and Newanda smirked and said, "Let's do it again tomorrow!"

Chapter 16

### Super Wedgie

The next morning we checked out the damage, and couldn't find a hornet in sight. The old truck bed trailer was now a blackish gray color and had several new holes that added to its rustic character. The surrounding trees, shriveled bushes, and blackened grass looked like a war zone and had the residual smell of gunpowder and smoke. In a few places there were small columns of smoke rising up where some of the bushes still smoldered.

I'm not sure if there was a clear winner out of this mayhem. We still wore the marks of the surviving hornets, which were now homeless. A small part of me felt sorry for them.

I walked over to the trailer, picked up the "V" shaped tongue, and looked inside. With my face pressed against the metal to get a better look, a bullet from the deep beyond, one last hornet took its final shot. It hit me square between the eyes.

I yelled out, "Ouuuuuch!!!" "Gosh, dang, freaking, stupid, piece of crud hornets!"

So much for feeling sorry for the hornets! We walked away, dissatisfied that the hornets got in the final blow. Final is a relative word, and we left with a new resolve to fight another day.

Not today, today was a day for "R & R". Rest and relaxation, achieved by good food and a lot of lazy lying around. It was a day when Mom would pour juice into the ice cube tray, place toothpicks into each slot to create a handle, and freeze it. A day when inside chores could wait, and there would be no stacking wood, mowing grass, or building stuff.

We would take our juice pops, lie down on the trampoline, and watch the clouds pass by. We observed the clouds, trying to make a picture with each one. We always had the usual dog, elephant, or llama, but the game got interesting when we added an action to the imaginary figure.

I rattled off the first one, "Right there is a cat being whipped around by its tail, and throwing up half chewed sardines."

The trampoline rest and relaxation period ended as soon as the juice pops had been eaten. Newanda began to bounce as high as he could. I did the same. At first we tried to steal each other's bounces, but then we switched to the more enjoyable "launching each other game."

When Newanda came down, and just as he started to go up, I would push down with my feet as hard as I could. My momentum was passed to Newanda's jump, and launched him several feet higher in the air.

During my next turn, Newanda sent me sky high. At my highest point, my feet were just above Newanda's head. With a slight flick of his wrist, Newanda hit my foot, which caused me to turn my body. I was a flat flying, body slamming, and belly flopping meteorite which was heading straight down to the middle of the trampoline. There was only one place I'd seen this done, The World Wrestling Federation or better known as WWF.

Unscathed, I jumped up, took two extra large bounces and leaped towards Newanda. I wrapped my legs around his neck and used gravity to pull us both down to the tramp. While descending, I flipped backwards, pulling Newanda over me and we landed flat on our backs on the springy trampoline mat. We both jumped up with smiles on our faces and crouched down in pro wrestler positions.

"I'm gonna take you down!" I shouted.

"Not if I get you first!" Newanda hollered back.

The next several minutes were filled with flipping, belly flopping, jumping over, sliding under, and grappling just like the professionals. In addition, we added props like chairs and wiffle ball bats. For several minutes we tried to think of special moves we could practice in preparation for any visiting neighbors. Big Time Wrestling was alive and well in my backyard!

We had a new and improved type of wrestling and the trampoline increased the fun factor exponentially. The only thing that would make it better would be to utilize our moves on the neighbor kids. We coaxed a bunch of kids from 186th Place to come over and we created the tournament.

There was Chubby Jason, notorious for shooting windows with his BB gun. Kuba who was better known for his gigantic wolfhound. Daniel and his brother Glen who had a solid reputation for their activity in the local believer church.

Somehow, Big Tony heard about the match and wanted in on the action. I am sure he thought it would be the perfect moment to legally bully everyone. I wasn't about to say "no", I was more scared of being called a wimp then being beat up by Big Tony. Besides, there was a small chance I could get him back for the Skittle incident at the movies.

We decided to pair up and play a little tag team. Big Tony quickly snatched up Jason. Newanda and I joined forces. Daniel and Glen invited little Kuba to hang out with them. Everybody broke off into their teams and discussed strategy.

Newanda and I searched through the house for some proper pro wrestler outfits. We found some old nylons to cover our faces, and a couple of pairs of sweats. All the professionals have a mask and tight pants.

Wrestlers also covered their stretchy pants with some sort of Speedo type swimsuit. We didn't have anything close to a Speedo, so we used some old whitey tighties to finish off the outfits. We were ready. The other guys looked a little ridiculous in their regular t-shirts, and cut off jeans.

Big Tony and Chubby Jason were laughing and pointing at us as we climbed up onto the trampoline arena.

Kuba yelled out, "Let's get ready to ruuuummmmblllle...!!!"

It was Newanda and I against Tony and Jason. Daniel, Glen, and Kuba stood on the grass and cheered, booed, and screamed at all four of us. Tag team wrestling started with one wrestler from each side, and my initial opponent was Jason. Our strategy was simple, "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee," and don't let Jason grab hold of you.

He rarely bounced on the trampoline, and had some trouble standing when others were jumping next to him. I would jump as hard as I could trying to set him off balance, and scramble for safety when he fell.

Suddenly, Tony jumped in without being tagged, soared through the air and body slammed me. This gave Chubby Jason a chance to grab my foot and yank me towards him. Newanda jumped in from the side with his feet flying straight towards the chubby guy's belly. Stunned, Jason flew towards the side of the trampoline and he let go of my foot as he rolled off the edge to the grass below.

Distracted by Chubby Jason falling to the ground, we failed to see Big Tony climbing from the trampoline to the top of the shed. Without warning, Tony did a front flip as he dove off the shed. He landed in between Newanda and myself and sent us flying in opposite directions. We landed on our backs, dazed and breathless.

While we were disoriented momentarily, Tony seized the opportunity to pounce on me with animal like aggression. He grabbed the seat of the nylons and pulled them back. The nylons were pulling up on my face and nose, giving me pig like features. He then tied the legs to my outside underwear. The underwear was being pulled up simultaneously creating a wedgie from the outside.

Caught in my own predicament, I didn't realize that Jason had caught hold of Newanda, and had given him a similar treatment. We were hog tied with our own nylons and our outside undies. So much for our pro wrestling outfits.

Daniel, Glen, and Kuba watched in horror, as we floundered helplessly on the trampoline. Big Tony and Chubby Jason jumped around trying to crack the two human eggs. We were half scrambled, hogtied, and helpless with no way to free ourselves.

That's when Kuba got the guts to jump in with reckless abandon. He dove straight towards Tony, and bit him just above the ankle. Daniel jumped up and wrapped his legs around Jason's massive belly. Chubby Jason was trying to free himself, when Glen jumped off the shed and pile drived him into the mat.

The waistband of the nylons inched up my face and once it was past my nose it flew off my head. I was able to free myself the rest of the way and I helped Newanda to escape.

We used the nylons to our advantage. I helped Kuba secure Tony. Glen and Daniel assisted Newanda to restrain Jason. We tied their hands behind their backs with the nylons and then tied the two big bullies together. Back to back, the two struggled to get off the trampoline.

Big Tony and Chubby Jason rolled off the trampoline and piled up in a crumpled mass on the ground. The cuss words were flying out of their mouths. Nobody realized how much of ruckus we had caused.

Mom was alerted to the noise in the backyard and came through the back door to check on us. She saw Glen, Daniel, Kuba, Newanda, and me standing quietly on the perimeter of the trampoline watching the spectacle on the grass below. Her attention shifted onto the big boys rolling around and trying to free themselves from each other and their pantyhose handcuffs.

Mom spouted off, "Are those my good pantyhose? What are you boys doing with my undergarments?"

She easily freed the boys from the nylons, and started lecturing Tony and Jason about respect for other's property and how she would use a bar of soap to clean their mouths out if she heard that kind of language again. The rest of us quietly snuck away.

From a distance I could hear mom's voice, "For crying out loud James, don't you know your pants go on the outside of your underwear."

Chapter 17

### The Midnight Ride of James Buccaneer

Chubby Jason and Tony slumped off together. They had been beaten by a bunch of little guys and a woman reclaiming her pantyhose. Newanda and I had decided that professional wrestling was not our ideal sport, at least not until we acquired better uniforms.

The rest of the evening was quiet and uneventful except for my little sisters chanting, "I see London, I see France, I see James's underpants."

We had a late dinner with the family and went out to the tramp to make our beds. We'd start the night with a lively pillow fight. The kind when your pillow ends up as hard lump in the bottom of your pillowcase. We'd follow the pillow fight with "Sleeping Bag-Crack the Egg." We usually ended by getting in our own bags and jumping upright, purposely crashing into one another. It was a sleeping bag mosh pit.

Most summer nights in Washington were warm, dry, and full of stars. Eventually, we'd fall asleep to the background music of frogs and crickets. It was the best night's rest a boy could ask for.

Sleep eventually found its way to the trampoline. I was dead to the world and had no idea there was trouble brewing. Suddenly, Newanda opened his eyes and sensed something was wrong. He looked and saw Sarge sitting alert and peering off into the distance.

Quietly Newanda shook me and said, "James there's someone in your yard."

We could both hear voices from the front of the house. Sarge, usually fearless in the face of danger, was frozen in fear of the unknown. I grabbed the BB gun and we all slipped off the trampoline. We looked around the corner of the doublewide trailer. In the dim light of the moon we could see what looked like large rabbits hopping all around the yard.

At a closer look, they were not gigantic rabbits, but Big Tony and his posse. They were all dressed in dark clothes and masks. They had toilet paper, and were breaking off small squares of the bathroom tissue and scattering them over the lawn.

I recognized a few of the people; they were the singed haired teenagers from the fireworks incident. Toilet papering was a common practice for teenage kids. It was especially cruel in Washington with the high humidity levels, rain, and very tall trees. Even in the summer there was always a thick layer of dew on the grass. Dew and rain mixed with toilet paper equaled a sloppy mess.

Big Tony's group was especially vengeful as they decided to "spot" the lawn and drape the trees with multiple rolls of toilet paper. Along with having long pieces of TP flowing in the wind, there were now thousands of soggy squares plastered all over the grass.

I waved at Newanda to come closer, and both he and Sarge inched their way to the corner of the house.

We were just getting up the nerve to attack, when suddenly the front door flew open and Dad came out yelling, "Get out of here you crazy kids, before I call the cops!"

Dad had a 12-gauge shotgun in his hand, and fired a shot in the air. Tony and his band split in all directions. Newanda and I started running and screaming towards the teenagers. I was carrying a stick, and Newanda had the BB gun. Our sudden burst of bravery persuaded Sarge to get in on the action.

The toilet-papering hooligans ran down the hill of our long driveway and towards the main road. I was nipping at their heels and Newanda was close behind me. The group in front of me dove into a parked car and locked the doors.

They started the car and immediately began to drive away. Out of a harebrained instinct, I jumped on the front hood. I stretched both arms across the hood and gripped tightly to the bases of the windshield wipers. Nothing but screams came from inside the vehicle as the driver began to speed away down McElroy road.

Shouts from the inside of the car were loud and clear, "What are you doing? You're gonna die!"

With my face planted firmly against the windshield and my feet sprawled across the hood, I held on for dear life. The situation was somewhat under control until the driver turned on the windshield wipers and the wiper fluid. My arms and hands swung back and forth, the wipers batted my face, and the wiper fluid sprayed my eyes, nose, and mouth. My only defense was to hauck loogies back at the windshield.

From the inside of the car a girl shouted, "Sick, that was pure snot."

It was a matter of time before my hands would slip and I'd be thrown to the wayside. As if the driver read my thoughts, I felt the car turning off the main road, and heard the crunch of gravel. He came to a stop and immediately put the car in reverse and then hit the brakes. I lost my grip, rolled off the front end of the car, and face planted into the nearby ditch.

I sat up in the ditch feeling disoriented, took a few breaths, and tried to regain my wits. I couldn't believe I survived the wrath of the wiper blades, wiper fluid, and a speeding car. I watched as the car backed away and sped off into the night.

Meanwhile back in our driveway, Newanda had caught one of the culprits. He was unsure what to do with her, and she was obviously scared and didn't like having a BB gun flashed in front of her face.

Another car pulled up and hollered to the girl. "Candy, get in the car!"

Newanda apologized for scaring the girl and graciously held the door as she got in.

Newanda's feelings of sympathy towards "Candy" quickly dissipated when the car sped off spraying Newanda with bits of gravel. The girl hung halfway out the window yelling, "Take that suckers!"

Back at the house, Big Tony was still at work. He used the others as a decoy to lure us away. Somehow he knew we'd be sleeping on the trampoline that night. He also knew we'd take off after the others like wolves chasing a wounded elk.

Tony had been busy. He wrapped our old van and the station wagon with toilet paper, but he had also used shaving cream to hold the paper in place. The trees were draped with new décor, and the lawn had a thousand plastic forks randomly placed throughout the yard.

Newanda, Sarge, and I walked up the driveway feeling proud of our victory. Our happiness came crashing down when we saw the catastrophe Big Tony had caused while we were gallivanting after the others. It was too late at night to worry about cleanup, and in a small way we wanted to see the damage in full sunlight.

Chapter 18

### Rest in Pieces

We were exhausted and we trudged back to our beds on the trampoline. We climbed in our sleeping bags and gravity pulled us towards the middle. The instant I hit the center, tragedy occurred. I fell half way through the mat of the trampoline. I was stuck, with my rear end and most of my torso being pulled towards the ground, and my legs and arms clinging to the upper side of the trampoline mat.

I was folded in half like a New York style slice of pizza being eaten by a hungry monster. There was a slit in the trampoline about 18 inches long, and I had fallen most of the way through it. I was like a cork in a bottle, with no way up, and no way down. In the dim light of the moon, Newanda was aghast as he watched me being sucked away and devoured by the trampoline.

Newanda scrambled out of his sleeping bag, and struggled to catch hold of my arms before I was completely swallowed up. He stood with his feet on each side of me, grabbing hold of my arms and sleeping bag. That's when the eerie sound of ripping rang loud and clear. The trampoline mat tore from one end to the other in about 3 seconds.

The cork had broken through, and I made a sleeping bag free fall to the ground below. Newanda, who was trying to save me, also made the fall. Big Tony had done it, we were sure of it. He had sliced a hole in the middle of the trampoline mat, and we had fallen right through it.

We laid in a sloppy heap of sleeping bags, torn trampoline, and toilet paper. We cried like babies on the inside as we mourned the death of our long time playmate.

Dad was not happy! That morning Dad spent hours spraying the drapes of toilet paper out of the trees, and every time he noticed something awry with the yard, he shook his head and glared at us. He kept mumbling little swear words with every strand of toilet paper he knocked out of the trees.

He put me in charge of cleaning the yard; otherwise we would have stayed as far away as we could from his anger. Spraying the toilet paper effectively cleaned the trees, but it left a mess on the ground below. Newanda and I began to look like my little sister's paper mache art projects as we carried away piles of soggy toilet paper.

While we cleaned, we debated the war against Big Tony. I asked, "Should we stop before something else dies?"

Newanda replied, "Revenge is usually not the answer, but it sure feels like the right thing to do. I can't stand how Tony always gets the last blow."

Big Tony, Chubby Jason, and the rest of the gang came strutting up the driveway, purposely passing by our house as we were cleaning up all the splotches of wet toilet paper. Newanda was pulling out the plastic forks in the lawn.

There was a smirk on Tony's face as he yelled out, "What are you doing, eating toilet paper?"

My face was burning red with fury. I held a wad of toilet paper in my hand and squeezed every drop of water out of it to vent my frustration.

Our eyes locked on the clump of wet toilet paper and our thoughts were the same. We both mouthed the words, "spit wad!"

Chapter 19

### Summer Fling

Big Tony and his gang walked a good way up the driveway, cut through the woods, and disappeared. This gave us time to plan our revenge. The piles of toilet paper gave us plenty of ammo, now all we needed was a launching apparatus.

Once again, we turned to the old truck shed and found plenty of material to create a fantastic launcher. We found some super stretchy rubber cord that Dad used years before for launching model airplanes. We now had several springs from the ripped trampoline and a piece of the mat for the basket.

There were two apple trees at the neighbors house about ten feet apart and we attached the rubber cord to each tree. The cords were tied to our makeshift basket, and we prepared the first load for takeoff. It was easy to get the toilet paper ready; we grabbed a great big wad and dipped it in water. We patted the wad as if it were a snowball, and placed it neatly in the basket. It was time for our first test run. Big Tony would come back again; he was attracted to trouble like slugs to a ripe strawberry.

The location of the apple trees was ideal. They were situated in a large horse pasture with loads of manure dotting the land. The field overlooked the driveway and across the road you could see our trailer house. If Big Tony and his mob came by again, we'd have a perfect shot at the entire group.

We didn't exactly have permission to use the field, but these were desperate times, and desperate times call for desperate measures. We would use our launcher until we won the battle, or until the neighbors kicked us out of their field.

We attached a handle to our homemade basket, grabbed a hold of it, and walked backward. We stretched the rubber cords to a length of 25 feet on each side. It took all our strength to pull the rubber cords back, and even more strength to hold them in place and aim.

We figured we'd have to arc the giant spit wad onto the driveway. We were able to get a better angle by pulling back and sitting down, using all our weight to take aim.

Newanda yelled out, "Ready, aim, fire!"

The first shot flew higher, faster, and much further than we anticipated. It sailed over the driveway and arched its way to my unsuspecting house. Luckily, the giant spit wad missed the cars, windows, and especially my Dad who was still busy cleaning the yard. It hit at the top of the house, just below the roofline. It smacked the house with such force that there was little left of the toilet paper, and a dent was created in the aluminum siding.

Dad looked up, "What the devil was that?"

We were too high, too strong, and too far. We needed a little less angle and a lot less force. We fired the next shot at the passing mail truck in an attempt to perfect our aim before Big Tony came by again. We pulled back, took aim; this time we stood upright to get less of an arc.

"Ready, aim, fire!" I yelled as we both fell to the ground and watched in awe.

"Wham!" Our giant spit wad blasted the side of the United States Postal Service truck. The driver, startled by the surprise attack, slammed on his brakes. He dove out of his mail truck and hit the ground in the fetal position with a package covering his head.

Realizing our terrorizing mistake, we both hid in the tall grass. While camouflaged, we couldn't help but congratulate ourselves on our perfect bull's eye. The Mailman got up off the ground and examined his truck.

With toilet paper splattered on the truck, the mailman said aloud, "Who plastered my "P" with TP?"

Eventually, the mailman drove off and we got ready for the next shot. We waited for quite some time for the return of Big Tony and his gang.

While we anticipated their return, Kuba, Daniel, and Glen came up the driveway hoping to jump on the trampoline. We left the giant slingshot, and gave them a tour of the damage around my front and backyard.

They were awestruck at all the toilet paper, and were in agony over death of the trampoline. Kuba quickly hid his face as a tear fell down his cheek. Glen and Daniel bowed their heads and said a quiet prayer on behalf of our beloved tramp.

Their anger towards Tony was building, and they too had a strong desire to seek vengeance. We returned to the giant slingshot. Our next plan was to build a protective stronghold around our newly devised weapon.

We found an old tractor tire behind the neighbor's barn. The tire was over five feet high, and weighed more than all of us together. It took all our strength to lift and roll it to our launcher. Once the tire began to roll, its momentum kept it going. With difficulty, we managed to stop the rolling tire and wedge it in place.

We stacked logs and sticks around the tractor tire and created an indestructible safe house. The slingshot was in place, but despite all the toilet paper collected, it did not make very many big wads.

We searched the vicinity for other projectiles to use in place of toilet paper. Kuba picked up an apple and threw it at me. I picked up the nearest thing to throw, and grabbed a handful of dried horse manure. The "horse apples" were almost as good as real apples, and had a much better effect on the thing they hit.

We collected hundreds of apples to use when the toilet paper ran out. The vandalism on the trampoline started a fire within Kuba that I had never seen before. He spent several minutes collecting fresh, steaming, moist horse droppings to make our weapon more potent.

Chapter 20

### Apples to Apples

We were ready! With all good battles, there was a period of waiting. All the men were watching and pacing, hesitant to go to war, but excited for the upcoming victory. We spent the next hour watching the empty driveway. We were bored almost to death and had about decided that Big Tony was not coming back that evening.

Newanda and I were concerned; our backup forces were getting hungry and tired of waiting around. I broke away for a minute to supply the troops with a fresh meal and drinks. I ran to the house and found a loaf of zucchini bread, a jar of homemade pickles, and tortilla chips. Dad always keeps an ample supply of Shasta pop from the local Safeway. I grabbed a six-pack and left. I ran back with the goods and was relieved to find the whole group in high spirits at the sight of food.

We sat in a circle chewing on pickles, chips, and zucchini bread. I had just popped the top of a Shasta root beer, when Kuba stopped chewing and put his ear to the ground. We all stared up the driveway in anticipation of the approaching enemy. You could hear their small talk and the crunch of gravel under their feet.

We threw down the half eaten pickles and bread, left the soda, and army crawled our way into position. Newanda and I prepared the giant spit wad shooter. The basket was filled with sloppy toilet paper, and Kuba added a few fresh horse apples. It was definitely Big Tony and Chubby Jason. We waited until they were in the same position as the mail truck to take the first shot. We pulled back the slingshot and waited for the precise moment.

"FIRE!" Newanda yelled!

We let go of the slingshot and hoped for the best. The toilet paper lead the way, followed closely by the horse manure. The giant spit wad sailed through the air with outstanding force and perfect accuracy. The wad and the manure found their mark, and smashed into the entire side of Big Tony's body.

The force knocked Big Tony off his feet, and he flew into Chubby Jason. They both hit the ground with arms and legs flailing. Screams of disgust and vile words were pouring out of their mouths as they began to realize what had plastered them.

Our first shot was a bull's eye and we couldn't hide our immense joy. We were whooping and hollering as if we had won the Superbowl. We should have hid, but we didn't. We had given our position away and forgotten to reload the slingshot. Big Tony and Chubby Jason went berserk.

Wiping the poopie, papery slop from his face, Big Tony started yelling at us. "I'm going to cut you guys up into eighty four pieces!"

They walked straight towards us with diabolical fire in their eyes. They were a box of roman candles, spewing sparks from their faces and smoke coming out of their ears.

We all stood our ground and grabbed anything and everything to defend us. Our bodies tensed as we got ready for the upcoming rumble.

Big Tony was too close to hit with the slingshot, we'd have to use "small arms."

"Ready the apples and manure!" I yelled out to my army.

The barrage was on; we threw apples until there were no more. Tony and Jason were being pelted to the point of total submission and had no chance of returning fire. The two bullies retreated and took cover behind a distant power pole.

Tony had his nose to the pole and Jason was crouched directly behind him. They were now far enough away to use the slingshot. We quickly loaded the slingshot with apples, manure, and the rest of the toilet paper.

"Ready. Aim. Manure!" I screamed.

The shot was dead on and plastered the power pole. The spray covered the surrounding area like the shrapnel from a grenade. That was enough for Big Tony, and he and Jason took off running like scared rabbits.

"Victory!" we cheered, as we stood proud and fearless.

We successfully subdued the enemy and sent the scoundrels running with their tails between their legs. With our egos puffed up, we slapped hands, chest bumped each other, and pumped our fists into the air. We even pulled out our Shasta root beer and shook up our cans to spray each other. It was similar to a baseball team winning the World Series.

We held our cans high and made a toast to acknowledge our dominating performance and weapons of mass destruction. We then hung out eating pickles and drinking soda for a couple of hours. We laughed until our guts hurt as we reenacted the scenario over and over.

Chapter 21

### A Colorful Grand Slam

I had popped the top of another Shasta root beer, when a rumbling noise came up the driveway. It could have been anybody, including our neighbor Penny, the owner of the property we were trespassing on. This particular rumble had a familiar sound that resonated up the hill.

We waited and watched with trepidation. It wasn't until the truck crested the driveway that I caught a glimpse of Big Tony in the driver's seat. He was driving his Uncle Bill's truck, and the back was filled with his crazy friends. From the back of the truck a shot rang out. A second later, Glen was laid out on the ground with paint splattered across his forehead and face. He'd been blasted with a paintball.

The shots came at us in a wild fury. I took shelter inside the big tire and hid from the onslaught. There was no chance of loading the big slingshot without being plastered with paintballs. The other's weren't as lucky, each of them taking shots to multiple parts of their bodies.

I heard their screams echo through the tire. "Awww! I'm hit!"

"I've got green blood!"

Newanda was behind an apple tree and Kuba took cover behind the tractor. Daniel and Glen ducked behind a dirt mound that still left them mostly exposed. Glen was taking the majority of the shots, which was unfortunate, because he was the gentle giant of the group. We were pinned down, with the enemy knocking at our doorstep. To stop the complete massacre, we had to take evasive action and quick.

I slid out of the tire and army crawled over to Newanda. Immediately, I was hit. The paintball skimmed my back and slammed into the base of my head, the ball exploded and smothered my head with pink paint. The ground was tearing up around me, bubbling with bits of dirt, manure, and paint.

After taking a few more body shots, I managed to get over to Newanda. We loaded the slingshot with apples and manure. The barrage of paintballs kept coming, but we endured the pain and pulled back the loaded basket. All of us had visible welts and bruises to go along with the paint splotches. Amidst the pandemonium, we took careful aim at the enemy. It was time to turn the battle back in our favor.

Kuba, Daniel, and Glen could see the loaded slingshot and crawled from their hiding places. They found their way into the security of the fort and the tractor tire. Kuba crawled inside the big tire, while Daniel and Glen hid behind it.

Newanda and I released the hailstorm. The apples and manure flew fast and true and slammed into the side of the old truck. We quickly reloaded the slingshot and fired a second time at the rusty rig.

Once again our shot found its mark, but it didn't seem to deter the guns firing back. Big Tony and his gang could see when to take cover and when to get up and shoot.

Unfortunately, we were still on the defensive side of things. We were pinned down with one major weapon, and the major weapon was not scaring anybody away. That's when things began to roll.

Kuba was still hiding in the tire, and Glen and Daniel were trying to hunker down behind it. They snuggled up to the tire so tightly that it began to shift. At first, the tire rocked a little back and forth. Suddenly the tire rocked over the small berm that held it in place and began to roll.

Kuba sat up from his position cradled inside the tire and screamed out, "What the heck? Why am I moving?"

Newanda and I looked at each other in fear as our little friend rolled straight towards the enemy's truck. He was picking up speed and screaming as he advanced forward.

"Stop this thing! I'm gonna hurl!"

Big Tony could see the tire on a direct path towards him, and for the moment he was frozen with fear.

He screamed out, "Shoot it, shoot the tire!"

Several shots were taken, but it was like mosquitoes trying to bite a giant grizzly bear. This tire was a rolling wrecking ball and it was crushing everything in its path.

Tony, who was in the drivers seat, desperately tried to put the old truck in gear. It seemed an impossible task to work the clutch, the gas pedal, and the gear shifter with a 500-pound tire careening straight towards him.

The dire situation was compounded with Kuba clinging for his life inside the tire and wailing, "Stop this tire! I'm gonna die! Stop this tire!"

The tire, now moving faster than the average car began to bounce a little with every mud puddle. A split second before it collided with the truck, the tire hit one last puddle and launched itself into the air. Everyone froze mid-battle as we stood in astonishment at the scene that unfolded before our very eyes.

The tire took flight, bounced on top of the truck, and continued on its path of destruction. It smashed down the cab, which exploded every window, and sent all the occupants diving for safety.

Kuba was still inside the tire, so we raced to save him. "Hold on Kuba! We're coming!"

The tire slowed as it passed my house, rolled through the garden, flattened some tomatoes and slugs, passed the old trailer and the burn scar from the hornet war, and slowed to a crawl in the bushes by the rope swing. The blackberry vines ensnared the tire and brought it to a complete stop.

We got to Kuba as he clumsily wobbled out of the tire. He was not dead, and despite being a little dizzy, was in perfect health.

While he pinched himself to make sure it was not a dream, he exclaimed, "That was awesome!"

Big Tony's body was also fine but we could see he was in a lot of distress. He had enough common sense to hit the deck when the tire came rolling in.

He moaned as he scanned over the damaged truck. "My Uncle Bill is gonna kill me!"

Big Tony finally got the old truck in gear, and with his head hanging out of the smashed window he turned the truck around.

He called to the others, "Get in the truck!"

The other guys hopped in the back and picked glass out of their clothes and hair.

They were laughing about the screaming kid and the giant tire. "I'm gonna remember this day forever!"

The laughter would pick up every few seconds, until Big Tony would yell back at them to "shut up!"

We climbed out of the woods and celebrated. We finally had a victory against Big Tony, however, our war had gone too far, and we felt bad for destroying Uncle Bill's truck. We all hoped Uncle Bill wouldn't be too hard on Tony.

Maybe now we could put our battles behind us. We had had enough of the bloodshed. It was almost September and there were other adventures to squeeze in before school and the rains started up again.

Chapter 22

### Summer's End

The next day Newanda and I set out to end our summer right. What we needed was a good fishing trip and we convinced Dad to let us use the green canoe.

The Canoe was heavy, but with two people underneath, it was manageable. We were like an odd shaped weiner dog walking down the driveway with Newanda's dog Sarge leading the way. We did our best to carry the canoe, and all our fishing equipment. It was a cumbersome, but we made it to the big pond.

This was the same pond I dove into as I flew over the handlebars of my Rodeo Rider at the beginning of summer. This time it was my choice to come back to its muddy shores.

We asked the owner if we could toss in a line or two. I think he felt sorry for us when he saw the canoe and all the gear, and no truck to haul it around. Shrugging his shoulders, he kindly said, "I guess so."

Before he could say another word, we had the canoe in the water.

We climbed in the canoe and pushed off. In the midst of all the poles, nets, and other miscellaneous gear, we had forgotten the paddles. To access the big pond, we had to go all the way around to the far side. There was no way either of us wanted to go back, and we'd make do with what we had.

Sarge found a big stick on the shore and was chomping on it. We decided to give the stick a try. We had learned several lessons with the milk jug raft, and we did our best to hold onto the stick.

Newanda shouted in his best pirate voice, "Shove off, ya bunch of lily livered scallywags! Arrgh! There be fish in these here waters!"

Our eyes were peeled as we scanned the water for the slightest signs of fish activity. We pushed our way around the big pond, chasing every ripple or flash of a fish.

Immediately, we caught two ten-inch trout by some logs sticking out of the water. The fishing was slow after that and every other cast we'd catch our lines on debris at the bottom of the pond. Rather than break our lines and lose our hooks, we'd dive to the bottom and unsnag our tackle.

After a while, our desires to fish had faded and the water was inviting us to come and play. We spent most of the afternoon with our gear on the shore, and the sun on our backs.

Canoes still float when they are filled with water, so we purposely capsized the canoe and rolled it several times. Sarge jumped in and out of the boat, chasing after sticks, fish, and the occasional duck. We did back and front flips off the end and paddled all over that little lake using our hands.

In the setting sun of a perfect summer evening, there was a small school of golden colored fish happily swimming in a circle. The feeder goldfish had survived and grown throughout the past couple of months. One of the fish swam over to the boat and poked his nose out of the water as if to say thanks for letting us go.

Summer was drawing to a close, and a day on the pond was an awesome way to end it. Everything we did that summer was for the thrill of adventure. We had made the most of each day, and the excitement wasn't about to stop. With the sun shining brightly, my thoughts turned towards winter and all the escapades that come with a chance of snow.

We 'd hold our heads up high and face each day with the surety that we would conquer whatever challenge came our way. If there was adventure in the air, we'd sniff it out and grab it by the horns.

ADVENTURE...., so close we can taste it!

