One Dynamite Fathers’ Day


Skunky Wilson (he got his nickname on account of—well, let’s just say that when he left home it depleted half of his state’s natural gas resources) and I became buddies from day one of kindergarten when we first met. You almost never saw one of us without the other, and everywhere we were trouble was soon to follow. The summer Skunky invited me to help him with his Fathers’ Day gift is one such experience.

The Wilsons lived on an old farm. Over the years no one had ever taken the time to clean out the barn. After the place had seen two or three generations of Wilsons, the pile of cow patties in the barn was beginning to be a problem. By the summer of our fourteenth year, the barn was so full of manure that the barn door couldn’t be shut and Mr. Wilson had to duck when entering and exiting the barn to avoid hitting his hid on the doorframe.

That summer Skunky called me on the phone and asked if I’d help him with his Father’s Day gift of removing the patty pile form the barn.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I’m already committed to doing something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like sitting on the porch with my little brother and watching the grass grow.”

“I’ve found a stick of dynamite to do the job,” Skunky enthusiastically responded.

“I’ll be there!” I answered.

Early, the Saturday morning before Fathers’ Day, I met Skunky in front of the barn. Skunky stuck the dynamite into the center of the mound of patties and lit it.

Now, rarely do minds of 14-year-old boys work in a logical mode, Skunky and I were no exception. It never dawned on us that when the stick of dynamite exploded, that stuff had to go somewhere.

The two of us took off running toward the corral fence and had almost reached it when we heard a loud KAAABOOOM! A blast of hot, stifling air and manure swept us into the air and plastered us against the fence.

After peeling ourselves from off the corral posts, Skunky asked, “Booger, (that was me) ya awlright?”

“Sure,” I answered, “And when does the plane land stewardess?”

We gathered ours wits together and sauntered toward the barn to inspect our handy work.

“Well, no need to worry anymore about the barn doors not shutting,” I said. The doors were no longer there.

As the we entered the building, we were blinded by the brightness of the mid-day sun. “Ooooh weeee!” exclaimed Skunky, “I bet we’re the only family in the whole county with a sunroof in their barn.”

As we stood admiring our handy work, all of a sudden we felt cold, callused hands of steel firmly grab us by the scruff of our necks. Mr. Wilson! For some reason that we just could not understand, Skunky’s dad was not pleased with his Fathers’ Day gift.