The four oldest grandsons and the two granddaughters have been in and out at the home place quite a lot over the summer. The quality of the blog posts might’ve suffered, but we’ve had a lot of fun and some interesting conversations.
Here are a few snippets:
Grandson: Nana, I’m kinda like a toad, or a frog. I really wanna be a toad. No, a snake. Do snakes eat toads?
Grandson: I’m a snake, then. Not a toad, or a frog.
Danni: Hey! Don’t sword fight Ladybug (youngest granddaughter).
Grandson: (with a look like hello?) Well, she’s got a ball bat.
Grandson: I’m gonna shoot a baby deer.
Granddaughter: (gasps) No, you’re not! That’s mean.
Grandson: Nuh, uh. They’re for somebody’s lunch.
Grandson: (striking pose, sword outstretched) I’m Feodore Roosebelt!
Grandson: Y’wanna know why I’m draggin’ my feet on the carpet, Gramps?
Grandson: Cause I got pee on ‘em.
Danni: Stop biting her! You’re not a real vampire bat!
Danni: Listen, pal. Don’t poke holes in my noodle.
Grandson: Hey, somebody scratch my back.
Then at the dinner table there was the dead silence from the grandkids that said more than words…after watching the bulls get semen tested.
But possibly one of my favorite conversations was the one below. *Red Alert: If you’re an animal rights activist–or a rat lover–I recommend you stop reading, now.
Six grandkids tumble into the house, sweating profusely and all talking at once.
Grandkids: Nana, there’s a sick rat in the barn. We’ve gotta help him or he’ll die!
Danni: (thinking, hallelujah, that rat poison is good stuff) Oh, I think y’all should leave that rat alone.
Granddaughter Blondie: But he’s really sick. We’ve got to nurse him back to health.
Danni: Um, no, honey. I’m sorry, but I won’t save a rat’s life.
Blondie: At least, can’t you put it out of its misery?
Danni: Just let it alone. It probably got in the rat bait. It’ll die in a little bit.
Blondie: (beginning to cry) That’s mean, Nana. We have to do something.
Danni: Honey, all I can do is hit it on the head and kill it.
Four grandsons: Yeah! Hit it on the head!
Grandsons rush back to the barn en masse. Granddaughters follow. Danni groans in her spirit and arms herself with pliers. Contrary to popular belief she doesn’t actually enjoy striking rats on the head. Except for the occasional two-legged rat. In the barn, the rat has crept beneath a pile of junk. Grandsons capture it. Danni picks up rat by the tail with her pliers. Stuffs it in a plastic cup. She has forgotten the hammer. Heads back to the house with grandsons leaping and shouting for blood like French Revolutionists mobbing the tumbrils of guillotine-bound aristocrats. Granddaughters trail behind in mourning. A thought strikes Danni like a sack of bricks on the head.
Danni: Hey, I know. I’ll throw the rat into the chickens and they can kill and eat it.
Blondie: Augh! No! Please. That’s cruel don’t do it!
Danni: You’d rather I hit it on the head?
Grandsons: Yeah! Hit it on the head! (They fetch the hammer.)
Danni groans in her spirit again, clears grandson heads out of the strike zone and dispatches the rat with a quick tap. A crowd of happy grandsons lead the funeral procession to the chicken pen. Grieving granddaughters follow.
Blondie: (crying) Nana, please put the rat where I can’t see the hens eat it.
Grandsons: We wanna see! Can we see…?
So, what is the point of that tale? I don’t think it has one except…if someone thinks there is no fundamental difference in boys and girls except their plumbing and environmental factors, I’d have to beg to differ. (And to anyone interested: The hens gobbled up the poisoned and head tapped rat with apparent enjoyment, suffering no ill effects afterward. It must truly be as my late father-in-law always said: “You cain’t poison a chicken.”)
God bless all y’all, have a great weekend as you go about your “rat killin'” as we say out in the country, and enjoy the young ladies of Red Roots singing Christian Country Girl.