“All good things come to them that wait.” I waited.

Do you remember when we were kids and we would go out on a warm summer evening and catch lightning bugs?

A Mason jar full of lightning bugs could serve as a real neat makeshift lantern. Also, as I remember a forgotten jar of lightning bugs takes on about the same subtle aroma as the week‑old can of night crawlers my mother found under my bed.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. Mom and Dad were taking a walk while my good old Uncle George was sprawled on our sofa taking a nap. He looked so peaceful lying there, his mouth open, sort of slack jawed, as he snored his sputtering snore.

Seeing him like that made me realize that my moment had arrived. l looked from his open mouth to the jar of lightning bugs in my hand. I knew that I should not do what I was going to do but it was already too late. Temptation and opportunity were on a converging course and there was nothing I could do to avoid the collision.

You should understand that My Uncle George had precipitated what was about to happen because He considered himself a world class practical joker. Nothing could stand in the way of a good laugh, especially if it was at someone else’s expense.

The previous winter he had taken me rabbit hunting with him.

I was usually pretty safe when I went hunting with Uncle George. I did not have to carry much game because he was never able to shoot anything. This blessing was due to the fact that he insisted on loading his own shotgun shells and he considered using a powder measure beneath his dignity.
This resulted in a wide and diverse assortment of shot patterns with no way of knowing what your next shot was going to produce and some of those shells contained half a teaspoonful of black powder while others held a hefty heaping tablespoonful!

He explained to me that this disparity in the amount of powder lent an element of surprise to the hunt and he was right; you were surprised if he ever hit anything.

It is a well known fact that once the animals recognized that it was Uncle George hunting them, they would come out in the open and grin insulting grins while they slowly ran back and forth in front of his shotgun taunting him.

They knew when they were safe.

Uncle George did get one rabbit that I know of. The poor bunny was sitting there and Uncle shot about a box of shells at it. The rabbit laughed so hard it died of heart failure.

He got a pheasant the same way. It was laughing so hard it flew into a tree and broke its own neck. (At times even today I can still hear that hideous bunny laughter.)

So, as I said Uncle George invited me to go hunting with him. On the fateful day in question, after we had been hunting for a while and we were both tired of the mocking laughter from the rabbits that he missed he asked me if I would like to shoot his shotgun.

The beast in question was an ancient, 10 gauge, side by side hammer gun of questionable pedigree sporting Damascus barrels. It was not the shotgun he usually carried and I was soon to learn why.

I was only about eight or nine years old at the time, very trusting, dumb as a stump and a runt. If I had been a pup they would have drowned me. (They did try but I kept getting out of the bag.)

Uncle George handed the shotgun to me. It was all I could do to hold the cannon. Slowly I raised the muzzle and my dear, sweet, kind Uncle George reached over and helpfully pulled back BOTH of those big, mule ear hammers.

I knew enough to pull the stock into my shoulder real hard. (At this point ominous music such as that from the shark attack in the movie Jaws could be heard in the background and, yes, I could hear it even over the mocking laughter of the rabbits.)

Aiming at an old rotten tree stump I pulled the front trigger.

The next thing I knew I was sitting on the ground no longer holding the shotgun. It was laying somewhere in the snow behind me. My ears were ringing, I had a bloody nose, a badly bruised shoulder, my cheekbone was cut and before the day was over I would have a beautiful black eye. In case you are concerned, the tree stump was uninjured. (At this point there was more laughter from the bunnies but I couldn’t hear it do to the ringing in my ears.)

Uncle George thought it was all very funny, a regular knee slapper. He guffawed for about five minutes and snickered for the rest of the day. He knew darned well that both of those barrels would fire at the same time and he had loaded them to kick like the proverbial mule. Incidentally, I looked like that very same proverbial mule had kicked me in the face.

When Uncle George told my father about the incident dad didn’t say much, he grinned and remarked, “Well, you’ll eventually get yours and when you do don’t come complaining to me.”

Good old Uncle George and his practical jokes.

And now you understand why I had to do what I was about to do.

Ever so quietly I unscrewed the lid on the Mason jar. The lightning bugs were scrambling and crawling all over each other as they peered up at me with their cute little eyes expressing their desire to be set free. Poor little bugs.

Swiftly pushing those thoughts of remorse far behind me I dumped all those cute little flashing beauties into Uncle George’s gaping mouth!

Warning! Dumping a zillion lightning bugs into somebody’s mouth while they are sleeping could be considered an act indicative of a deep and abiding death wish. In other words, not necessarily conducive to long life.

Uncle George did not like bugs. He hated bugs! If I had dropped a single lightning bug down his shirt front he would have had the screaming weemies for the next week. I dumped all those bugs into his open mouth.

Suddenly he stopped snoring. (I believe this is due to the fact that lightning bugs have an adverse effect on snoring molecules. There obviously needs to be more study in this area.)

For a moment he even stopped breathing! Quite spectacularly his body suddenly went rigid, his jaws slammed shut, and his eyes opened wide. The terror and confusion written there was a beautiful thing to behold.

His hands flew into the air, grasping as though he were trying to climb an invisible ladder as he gagged and choked, sputtered, coughed and spit. Yes, it is true; grown-ups really can be quite entertaining!

About that time I decided that perhaps it was a good idea to go fishing.

Later on I tasted a lightning bug and to be honest with you they taste sort of bitter, not something you would want to eat very often.

I was hoping to have the opportunity to perform the same experim
ent again only using a handful of night crawlers, a toad or perhaps something REALLY disgusting and gross from the chicken yard, but it was not to be.

It is a sad fact that I do not remember Uncle George ever taking a nap at our house again, though I can’t imagine why? Who can figure? Chaz

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