Though some may think their sweet intelligent children could not possibly be attempting to build better, faster, stronger propulsion devises, the majority may find that if their child has testosterone, they may be wrong.
The following is an excerpt from my book “From Positive Test to Empty Nest,” a humorous journey through motherhood, available at Amazon.com.
"Along with learning about firearms comes a natural curiosity about the actual explosion that causes the bullet propulsion. Next thing you know your sons that are barely getting passing grades in science are building potato launchers by themselves! Go figure. We nipped the potato gun invention in the bud - lol. But that did not inhibit their thirst for knowledge of all things explosive.
One beautiful summer day, hot and dry, our sons 'Pete' and 'Repeat' (using their nicknames - like y'all don't know who I am speaking of), with the aid of their fellow partner in crime, we'll call him TA to protect his identity, created a small bomb launcher. With all their juvenile testosterone filled wisdom they think to try it out with a bottle rocket first. All is going as planned until two of the boys freak out and beat feet. Leaving my son 'Pete' to hold the launcher that has been lit and is pointed at our front knoll, the same knoll that is currently and conveniently covered with acres of dry grass and scrub oak. Uh oh. The two 'innocent' boys come skidding around the corner of the house into the back yard, where we adults were attempting to relax, to inform us whats up. We run out front just in time to see a beautiful wild land fire fully engulfing our grassy knoll. Oh boy. Luckily I had the foresight to strategically place 100 foot hoses all around the property for just such an emergency."
Believe it or not, that little glimpse into my book leads to the story of the big-hearted country folk.
With my grassy hill completely engulfed in flames, and us being newbies by local standards - we had only lived here four years by then - we had yet to make a passel of friends to call upon in case of such an emergency. So armed with hoses and one rake our little family sets out about putting out the fire. That means I ran around screaming and Wyatt commanded the troops with precision and authority. To my surprise people driving by my home were not sanely driving away quickly in the other direction, they were actually coming down my long driveway to help fight the fire.
I noticed the first car down the drive, the driver was a pretty young lady. I'm thinking to myself, “What is she thinking? Run pretty girl, run!” The cute girl jumps out of the car in itty bitty shorts, perfectly styled blond hair and manicured nails and immediately asks where my shovels are. Right, I'm the mother of three boys, like I actually know where any of my shovels may be located. They could be anywhere, maybe up on the hill left there after digging a foxhole, or maybe by the pond after seeing if there was a spring that fed it. Definitely not near the horse stall, that would be too easy to find for possible mucking duty later on. One glance at my blank face and she realizes that I will be completely useless and off she runs in search of the illusive Maness shovel. Lo and behold within minutes she comes running back to the now rapidly spreading fire with three shovels in her hands! I wonder what would happen if I send her back to look for my long lost pitch fork?
By now it looked like we were having a huge party with the amount of cars in our driveway, not quite the kind of bar-b-que party I had ever envisioned, but in the country, a wild land fire is evidently party material. With all the helping hands putting out the fire, about the time CDF showed up the fire had spurt its last dying flame. We attempted to make some logical explanation to the CDF Captain for this wayward field fire; Say a broken bottle magnifying the sun's rays? Or maybe a cigarette thrown from a car? Definitely not a firework rocket launched by prepubescent boys, no way, not that. By the time we had exhausted our feeble excuses with CDF I turn to see that all the helping hands had disappeared as quickly as they had shown up to help.
I was able to thank Lori the shovel girl, but I was never able to thank the rest of my hero's. I didn't even know them and most likely they didn't know me either. If you are reading this and you were there that day, thank you so very much for your selfless act of kindness.
My point being, in the country strangers become friends and community becomes family in a time of need. Only in the country when you find yourself in the midst of a personal crisis either small or of seemingly insurmountable odds do you find the true meaning of community. When you can't afford medical care for your ill child, the community surrounds you and rallies behind you throwing spaghetti feeds, concerts, and bar-b-que's to raise funds for your child's needs. When you can't afford science camp for your child, the local businesses have chili cook offs, bake sales and car washes to raise funds to make sure that every child has that wonderful opportunity. When life throws you a curve ball and cuts your hours or your pay, organizations like the Ebbett‟s Pass Moose Lodge has a Thanksgiving feast welcoming all in need and the food banks feed hundreds, sometimes making deliveries. When the economy suffers and the food bank supplies diminish, food collection boxes are put in all the stores and people like the Copperopolis Volunteer Fire Department has a 'Fill the Boot' day raising enough funds from the generosity of the community to make sure no one in their community will be without food. When college looks like just a dream, people like the Lions know that children deserve to see that dream come true, the community comes to the rescue with scholarships and grants. And when we have the most painful of heartaches, the loss of a loved one, the community surrounds you in a warm blanket of love, friendship and support.
I can't imagine living anywhere else but in our wonderful slice of the country… can you?
Until next time…welcome to the country.
By,
Charity Maness
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