There are a few things in life every little boy should have, namely: a dog, a tree house, and a grandpa that catches wild critters. Needless to say, our grand-boys are lucky. I’m not so sure about the grandma, though. Let me tell you about last week’s adventure.
Our three grandsons came to spend the day with us. Rhett (12) is our computer geek, Mason (8) is the hunter and inventor, and Korry (5) is our little wild man. The two younger ones took Grampy by the heart and conned him into building a tree house. Mason picked out the trees. None of them suited. Grampy explained that one lone tree doesn’t work, there had to be at least three of them together to put the platform on; and so the two little ones combed the backyard, sizing up trees while Grampy sat in his lounge chair drinking iced tea and hoping they would forget about this tree house thing.
Finally, they came running, shouting, “We found the perfect trees!”
Grampy groaned. You see, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about this construction project.
“Okay guys, now you need to find some tools,” he ordered.
They marched into the garage and came back with a handsaw, two hammers, a can of nails, and the little one bringing up the rear was dragging a spade shovel. Lord only knows what his plan was for the spade. Possibly to bury Grampy if he didn’t soon show some interest.
“Good job, guys,” Grampy praised. “Now, you have to find us some wood.”
This time they hiked to the woodshed. The hasp was too high for either of them to reach so they shouted for Grampy’s help. I laughed as he groaned and eased himself from that cozy lawn chair. He lumbered up through the yard like a grouchy old bear just coming out of hibernation.
When the hinges on the woodshed door squeaked, it was then that I heard the screams. Suddenly, the littlest one burst through the back door shouting, “Granny, I needs gloves! Quick!”
As I rifled through the glove drawer, I could hear the dog barking madly, and shouts coming from the woodshed.
“There he goes!”
“Catch him, Grampy!”
“There’s six of ‘em!”
“Ouch, the little sucker bit me!”
“Are you bleedin’, Grampy?”
“Susan, send my gloves with Korry!”
Oh boy, I knew from past experience that this was going to be a riot. I also knew what supplies to take to the woodshed: leather work gloves, a flashlight, and a cage. Korry worked his fingers into knit snow gloves. Two fingers drooped where he missed the holes.
“I’m gonna catch me a baby ‘quirrel,” Korry informed me. “I gonna name him Chick Munk.”
When we reached the woodshed, we found Grampy and Mason on all fours diving under shelves and buckets and parts from an old furnace, you know, all sorts of good junk stored in a woodshed that hadn’t been used for twenty years. Walnut shells and chewed up rags littered the floor. Mason was covered in cobwebs and walnut stain.
Suddenly, I heard loud squealing and then silence. The dog had pounced on a baby red squirrel. It quickly went to squirrel heaven. Then there was another loud squeal, a second baby squirrel got put on the doggie train to heaven.
“Cubby! Drop my Chick Munk,” Korry shouted.
It was too late, the squirrel was dead. Korry picked it up and shook it. “Wake up Chick Munk.”
“Not like that, Korry,” Mason had to get his two cents in. “Gimme it! I know how to do CPR.”
As Mason administered CPR to the squirrel, Korry paced like the anxious mother squirrel, but to no avail. We tried to explain to the boys, that once a squirrel goes to heaven, there’s no coming back. But Korry wasn’t ready to give his Chick Munk up just yet. He got a piece of twine and made a leash (actually, it looked like a noose) for his squirrel. He carried it around all afternoon slung over his shoulder like a hobo’s pack.
Finally, he brought it inside and threw it onto the kitchen counter. “Cut its tail off, Granny,” he ordered. “I want to take it to school to show my friend, Chloe. Hey, can you make me a squirrel pie?”
Luckily, I convinced him that Chick Munk should be buried out behind the woodshed where the mother squirrel could visit his grave. So we had a use for that spade shovel after all. After the funeral, Korry went home with Chick Munk’s tail in a baggie and Grampy went to the garage to make a cross for on the grave.
And what happened to the other four babies? Well, if I were them, I’d high-tail it out of that woodshed and find a new domain before those kids come back next weekend. Besides, Granny’s not in the mood for making squirrel pot pie!
Our three grandsons came to spend the day with us. Rhett (12) is our computer geek, Mason (8) is the hunter and inventor, and Korry (5) is our little wild man. The two younger ones took Grampy by the heart and conned him into building a tree house. Mason picked out the trees. None of them suited. Grampy explained that one lone tree doesn’t work, there had to be at least three of them together to put the platform on; and so the two little ones combed the backyard, sizing up trees while Grampy sat in his lounge chair drinking iced tea and hoping they would forget about this tree house thing.
Finally, they came running, shouting, “We found the perfect trees!”
Grampy groaned. You see, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about this construction project.
“Okay guys, now you need to find some tools,” he ordered.
They marched into the garage and came back with a handsaw, two hammers, a can of nails, and the little one bringing up the rear was dragging a spade shovel. Lord only knows what his plan was for the spade. Possibly to bury Grampy if he didn’t soon show some interest.
“Good job, guys,” Grampy praised. “Now, you have to find us some wood.”
This time they hiked to the woodshed. The hasp was too high for either of them to reach so they shouted for Grampy’s help. I laughed as he groaned and eased himself from that cozy lawn chair. He lumbered up through the yard like a grouchy old bear just coming out of hibernation.
When the hinges on the woodshed door squeaked, it was then that I heard the screams. Suddenly, the littlest one burst through the back door shouting, “Granny, I needs gloves! Quick!”
As I rifled through the glove drawer, I could hear the dog barking madly, and shouts coming from the woodshed.
“There he goes!”
“Catch him, Grampy!”
“There’s six of ‘em!”
“Ouch, the little sucker bit me!”
“Are you bleedin’, Grampy?”
“Susan, send my gloves with Korry!”
Oh boy, I knew from past experience that this was going to be a riot. I also knew what supplies to take to the woodshed: leather work gloves, a flashlight, and a cage. Korry worked his fingers into knit snow gloves. Two fingers drooped where he missed the holes.
“I’m gonna catch me a baby ‘quirrel,” Korry informed me. “I gonna name him Chick Munk.”
When we reached the woodshed, we found Grampy and Mason on all fours diving under shelves and buckets and parts from an old furnace, you know, all sorts of good junk stored in a woodshed that hadn’t been used for twenty years. Walnut shells and chewed up rags littered the floor. Mason was covered in cobwebs and walnut stain.
Suddenly, I heard loud squealing and then silence. The dog had pounced on a baby red squirrel. It quickly went to squirrel heaven. Then there was another loud squeal, a second baby squirrel got put on the doggie train to heaven.
“Cubby! Drop my Chick Munk,” Korry shouted.
It was too late, the squirrel was dead. Korry picked it up and shook it. “Wake up Chick Munk.”
“Not like that, Korry,” Mason had to get his two cents in. “Gimme it! I know how to do CPR.”
As Mason administered CPR to the squirrel, Korry paced like the anxious mother squirrel, but to no avail. We tried to explain to the boys, that once a squirrel goes to heaven, there’s no coming back. But Korry wasn’t ready to give his Chick Munk up just yet. He got a piece of twine and made a leash (actually, it looked like a noose) for his squirrel. He carried it around all afternoon slung over his shoulder like a hobo’s pack.
Finally, he brought it inside and threw it onto the kitchen counter. “Cut its tail off, Granny,” he ordered. “I want to take it to school to show my friend, Chloe. Hey, can you make me a squirrel pie?”
Luckily, I convinced him that Chick Munk should be buried out behind the woodshed where the mother squirrel could visit his grave. So we had a use for that spade shovel after all. After the funeral, Korry went home with Chick Munk’s tail in a baggie and Grampy went to the garage to make a cross for on the grave.
And what happened to the other four babies? Well, if I were them, I’d high-tail it out of that woodshed and find a new domain before those kids come back next weekend. Besides, Granny’s not in the mood for making squirrel pot pie!
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