Dootsie Bobo was my very best friend. One day I stopped by his house to see what he was doing and when I opened the kitchen door I was immediately alarmed! There, on the table, in plain sight, was a great big plate of still warm, fresh baked, oatmeal cookies! The alarming thing was, THE COOKIES WERE UNGUARDED!

Taking it upon myself to rectify the situation I pulled out a chair and sat as close to those cookies as I could get. No wandering tramp, or stray dog was going to get those cookies with me around.

I knew better then to take a cookie without permission but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to admire them. I was deeply engrossed in guarding and admiring the cookies when Dootsie Bobo’s mother walked into the room. I guess she was some shocked to see me there with my nose in her plate of fresh baked cookies. Being very observant she also noticed that I had worked up a serious drool guarding the cookies.

Taking pity upon me she gave me a glass of milk and two of the more obviously drooled on cookies. I ate the cookies and drank half the milk and continued to sit there. I was hoping that she would notice the remaining milk, and feeling compassion, give me a couple more cookies to sop it up with but it wasn’t to be. Wisely she had moved the plate to keep the drooling to a minimum.

Soggy oatmeal cookies for some reason are not all that popular, especially if they are soggy from someone else’s drooling and slobbering.

She stopped across the table from me and stood there with her arms folded looking at me in a very dangerous way. I was familiar with that look. It was the same look I received from my mother when she was trying to think up something for me to do.

“Did you like the cookies?” she asked.

“Uh, Huh!” I replied, nodding my head vigorously.

“Well now, Alvin is out behind the house working. If you go out and help him I will give you some more cookies.”

At first I didn’t know who it was she was talking about when she said, “Alvin” but then I remembered, that is what she called Dootsie Bobo. I always thought it was sort of sad, his own mother calling him, “Alvin” when he had a real neat name like Dootsie Bobo.

I thought to myself, ’Those cookies are some powerful good but are they worth working for?’

“What’s he doing’ out back?’ I asked. After all, a guy has a right to know what he’s selling his soul for!

“He’s killin’ spiders.” She replied.

“Killin’ spiders?” I asked. (My interest had increased considerably.) “Yah, I can do that!” I said with a little more excitement then I meant to show. (It is never wise to show enthusiasm for something that adults consider work.) I drank the rest of my cookieless milk knowing that she would give me some more when we returned from, “Killing spiders.”

I expected to see Dootsie Bobo poking around, looking under boards and things in his search for spiders but he was nowhere to be seen. I was about to leave when I heard a thumping sound coming from their privy. And then I heard Dootsie Bobo’s voice mumbling something about “Dad blamed, frazzle niffin, spiders!”

The door to their privy was propped open so I walked over and looked in. Now that was a sight! Dootsie Bobo was there all right, at least what I could see of him. He was sprawled across the toilet seat, his head and one arm stuck down through one of the toilet holes while he flailed away with a short handled broom. Boy oh boy, there wasn’t no cookie in the world worth me sticking my head down through one of those toilet seat holes!

Back in the forties a lot of folks, even some with indoor facilities, still had a little comfort station out behind their houses. Dootsie Bobo’s father had built an extra nice one, a two holer it was, and he had painted it white with blue trim inside and out. Right cozy I must say. He had even nailed a monkey wards catalog to the wall! That was something special ‘cause all we had in our privy for the purpose of necessity was a bucket of corncobs. Them corncobs surely are rough.

“Hey, Dootsie Bobo. What’cha doin’? Holy Smokes, you better be careful. You’re apt to fall in there and drown!”

At my voice he pulled his head out of the hole and grinned a real big grin. “I’m killin’ spiders! Ma don’t want no spider to bite her on her bum so she told me to come out here and kill the spiders and that’s what I’m doin’, killin’ spiders! She’s goin’ t’ give me some oatmeal cookies an’ milk when I’m finished.”

“Boy oh boy, sounds like fun!” I exclaimed. “You bash many of ‘em?”

“Yeah, four little ones and one about the size of a dinner plate!

“There has to be a better way to clean out them spiders then stickin’ your head down there!” I said.

“Can’t think of any,” he replied. “I tried scaldin’ ‘em with hot water but that makes things stink real bad!”

“Too bad we couldn’t blow ‘em up!” I exclaimed.

Now that really got his attention.

“Blow ‘em up, How?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Dynamite?”

“Where the dickens we goin’ to get any dynamite?” He queried.

“Does your pa have any left over from blowin’ up them stumps in old man Shultz’s pasture?”

“Yah, in a box under their bed. But I don’t think he’s goin’ to give us any!”

“Let’s ask him!”

Optimistically we ran to their house and excitedly asked Dootsie Bobo’s father for two or three sticks of dynamite. So much for childish optimism.

“What you boys want dynamite fer?” He asked with a chuckle.

“To blow up spiders!” We both replied enthusiastically.

We never did get an answer. Dootsie Bobo’s father was laughing too hard I guess. We could still hear him hooting and guffawing as we made our way back to the privy. Grown ups sure can be hard to figure out sometimes.

We puzzled on it some and concluded that there was no way this side of a miracle that either of our fathers was about to give us any dynamite to play with. Frankly, I knew better then to ask mine.

“Just maybe cherry bombs would work!” I exclaimed.

Luckily I still had a number of cherry bombs that I was hoarding for a special occasion and blowing up spiders seemed like a pretty good special occasion.

We decided to start with caution. Maybe one cherry bomb would do the trick? I held it while he lit it. As the fuse started to sputter Dootsie Bobo jumped outside and I threw the cherry bomb down the toilet hole. Dootsie Bobo tried to hold the door closed so I couldn’t get out. Great kidder that Dootsie Bobo. Luckily, my desire to get out was greater then his desire to keep me in.

We stood leaning against the privy door gasping for breath from our exertion and the excitement of the moment. We were grinning like a couple of idiots when from the nether regions of that pretty little privy we heard a faint, “Whumph”

“That’s it? That wasn’t an explosion! We’re goin’ to have to use five or six cherry bombs!”

Up until then neither of us had ever heard of a dud cherry bomb.

We did some puzzling on the matter and decided that if we wrapped all six of the cherry bomb fuses together with a long piece of firecracker fuse we would have plenty of time to light that fuse and get outside before the explosion.

Everything went as planned, up to a point.

Dootsie Bobo lit the fuse and I dropped that cluster of cherry bombs down their toilet hole. We jumped outside and slammed the door, leaning against it expectantly. That is where things became a little confused and where they began to go a just a tad wrong.

What we had not reckoned on was Dootsie Bobo’s father rushing down the path in an obvious state of dire physical distress and in need of immediate relief just as we slammed that privy door.

Dootsie Bobo wanted to warn his father in the worst way. He started to say something but his father grinned at us and said, “Not now boys, in a hurry.” Then he laughed as he said, “You didn’t blow up all them spiders did’ja?” Still laughing he yanked the door open, stepped in and slammed the door shut, latching it on the inside as he did so.

Dootsie Bobo’s father was still laughing as he exclaimed something about, ”Boys bein’ boys.”

For a few seconds there was silence. Then, from inside the privy a puzzled voice inquired, “Boys, what is that hissing sound I hear?”

We didn’t say anything. How do you tell a man that he is sitting on a bomb?

Dootsie Bobo and I stood there staring at each other hoping that it wouldn’t happen when it happened.

Five of the six cherry bombs exploded as expected with a terrific explosion. In fact It was much louder then we expected.

BOOM!

Then for about five long seconds all was very still.

I was afraid that we had blown up by best friend’s father! I was thinking that it would be a long time before Dootsie Bobo’s mother gave me any more oatmeal cookies and milk.

That sixth cherry bomb obviously had a real slow fuse. The second explosion was not nearly as loud as the first but it WAS a cherry bomb and Dootsie Bobo’s father was still sitting there, dazed and bewildered from the first explosion.

BOOM!

Thank goodness he was still alive. His exit was immediate and spectacular. He did not unlatch the door, he darned near tore it from its hinges! Blackpowder smoke billowed out in a big cloud, whisping around him. He stood there for a moment, unsteady, sort of staggering, dazed and confused, still trying to figure out what had happened. Then he began shuffling his way up the path toward the house with as much dignity as possible. Which was not much considering that his pants were still down around his ankles and his bottom was painted brown.

As he went he was mumbling something about, “Kids, Dynamite? Got’ta get rid of that dynamite!”

Our idea worked to perfection. No more spiders, for a while at least.

I didn’t go to their kitchen for oatmeal cookies and milk that day.

It took us nearly a week to scrub and repaint the inside of the privy. It took a little longer then that for Dootsie Bobo’s father to regain his hearing.

It was about this time that his father developed a nervous twitch very similar to the one my father had.

I did eventually get my oatmeal cookies and milk though. That was extra special. Dootsie Bobo and I sat there in their kitchen eating cookies and drinking milk while we made plans to build a giant slingshot big enough to throw an entire cow. (We did build the slingshot. It wouldn’t throw a cow but that is another story.)

As we ate cookies and drank milk and made plans Dootsie Bobo’s father sat across from us, staring at us intently, that worried expression on his face all the more entertaining due to his uncontrollable twitching.

Parents sure can be fun dont’cha think?

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