As a young man, I was always looking for a way to help out around the house or yard. Or at least what I thought was helping out.
In the summer of my tenth year, we started noticing a steady stream of ants in the basement and back patio. Seems they were getting through a small crack along the bottom of the door, looking for tidbits of food to eat and small children to bite. I followed a trail of them out through the yard, and along the fence in the back corner I found it. It was huge. Probably two feet around, a foot high, and covered with ants. Hundreds, no, thousands of them. The perfect new toy for a ten year old boy!
I spent the afternoon poking at it with sticks and watching the ants repair it, losing all track of time in my study of ant culture. The smell of dinner cooking brought me out of my scientific haze and I headed back to the house, filled with the anticipation of my find.
I couldn't wait to tell dad, so I did almost immediately upon entering the kitchen. After blurting out my tale of discovery, my father stood up, grabbed his ice cold can of Rainier, and said "show me."
We marched out to the corner of the property, whereupon my dad let out a quiet "wow". Then he poured a little beer on it to stir things up, and pronounced he'd take care of it the next day after work.
"
Howya goin' to do that?" I asked.
"I'll pour some white gas down the hole and then light it with a match- burn out the queen and they'll go away" he said, not yet regretting the dispensing of that information.
The gears in my ten year old head started turning.
The next morning, after a breakfast of Sugar Smacks or some other cereal that was equally nutritious, I eagerly awaited the arrival of my best friend. Finally seeing him coming around the corner, I started running toward him yelling "hurry up- ya gotta see this!".
We headed out back and straight to the corner of the yard.
"Wow" he exclaimed as we both reached for something to poke the anthill with. We spent some time torturing the ants, but some of them started crawling over our PF
Flyers onto bare skin and administering a few bites to our shins. That's when we moved back and I began to lay out my plan.
I'd decided that we were going to help out my father by doing in the ant hill for him. He'd come home and see that they'd already been laid to fire, and would be proud of his young son for 'handling things' while he was at work earning the bacon.
Yes sir, this plan had glory written all over it!
We headed for the garage, in search of the red and silver gas can with the words 'Coleman Stove Fuel' written on it. It's my belief that back in the '60's, every Northwest home had at least one of these cans in their garage. We usually had three or four on hand as my parents took us kids camping a lot. More on that in a later story.
Anyway, we found what we were looking for, but the cans were barely half full. But there it was, shining from the back of the shelf- an unopened gallon can of white gas gold!
We opened it, tore out the seal and closed it back up. We grabbed some wooden matches, and then remembered that whenever the stove or lantern tank got filled up, you were supposed to use a tin funnel. Well no job is good unless done right, so we searched around and found one in a box full of other camping items.
Yep, we were ready to roll.
Heading back to the corner of the yard we were giddy with the excitement of performing a task usually reserved for adults. But today, we were going to prove that we were ready for the next step towards adulthood.
Arriving at the hill, we discovered that the hole wasn't really big enough for the funnel, and that when we tried to enlarge it with a stick it caused a cave in to the point there was nowhere to even put a funnel.
Deciding to head back to the garage to seek something to make the perfect hole, we walked around and around and finally spotted it. The end stake from the croquet set. We grabbed a mallet too, just to make sure we got the stake way down into the queen ants dark lair.
Back at the ant hill, I held the stake while my friend pounded it down into the hill. Well, that was between whacking me on the wrists and forearms as his aim was a little off. After going in about a foot and a half, I worked the stake around until we had about a two inch opening, then pulled it out- covered with biting ants heading right for my fingers. I threw it on the ground and my friend started smashing the biters with the croquet mallet. Not a pretty site, but quite effective.
Turning back to our task, we looked into the dark maw of the anthill. Ants were busy trying to repair the damage we had caused, so we dropped the funnel in the hole and grabbed the can of white gas.
Starting to pour it in, there was a small debate between us as to how much was enough. We finally agreed on pouring it all in, because if a half a can was good, a whole can was twice as good.
Tossing the empty can out onto the lawn, I used a stick to flip the funnel out of the hole. As we got ready to strike a match and send the ants to a fiery grave, I thought "wouldn't it be cooler if we had some kind of fuse?"
Well duh.
Off we went to the garage to look for the perfect fuse.
Meanwhile, the white gas is spreading underground, in what later would turn out to be a large underground ant complex.
As we wandered around looking into the shelves and corners, we opened the garage fridge to see what we could quench our ten year old ant exterminators thirst with. Squirt, Pepsi, Shasta Black Cherry,
Nesbitt's, Honey Dew Grape. A tough choice, but finally settled on the Shasta ('
cuz you know it just
hasta.....)
All this time, the liquid and vapors are working their way around the underground chambers of the ant colony, just waiting for some flame to send the biting ants and their queen to their own insect hell.
After quenching our thirst, we came up with nothing. Deciding to widen our search, we headed into the kitchen. There it was. Paper towels. I pulled out about ten sheets, tore them clean from the dispenser and headed for the back yard. We spread them out on the lawn, and rolled a ten foot long paper fuse that would burn fast yet give us a chance to stand back and admire our handiwork. I fed about two feet of it into the hole, and we put a match to the other end.
It went out after a couple of feet, so we lit it again. Two feet from the nest and it quit burning and just smoldered. This time we made sure it was going to burn down by lighting it about a foot from the opening.
Turning and walking away to a safe distance, we were smug in a job well done. It was then that I heard a strange noise and turned to see what it was.
The next thing I remember is staring into a beautiful Northwest summer sky, so blue, but with small things snowing down on me. I realized I was covered with dirt, small sticks, grass and dead ants. Lots of dead ants.
My friend was face down next to me and as confused as I was, covered with the same stuff, trying to sit up. Turning his head towards me, getting ready to ask what would later be deemed a stupid question, we both realized that all the ants weren't dead, just stunned. And were coming to. And pissed. Pissed off ants react one way. By biting who or what they assume has pissed them off. Covered in pissed off ants, we jumped up and ran for the lake and jumped in, trying to drown or dislodge our small tormentors.
We swam around for a bit, clearing our heads, when we realized we had to get back and inspect our work.
Exiting the lake we looked at each other, and without saying a word we ran for the back yard to take in the results.
"Wow" we said in unison.
There was a crater, about two feet deep and four feet across, where the ant hill had been. Seems the gas and vapors had spread around pretty good during our long search for fuse material. And when the flame hit the gas, well, I'd be remiss if I didn't say there was a bit of an underground explosion.
It was about this time that my father came walking down the back steps with a can of white gas in his hand. He'd decided to come home for lunch and take care of the ant problem. Getting to the bottom of the steps, he turned and saw us standing back in the corner of the yard. He didn't say a word as he took in the whole scene. We, too started to look around.
The contents of the crater were everywhere. Trees, shrubs, the fence, everything was covered with the debris of what had once been the ant hill.
My father set the can of gas down, put his hands in his pockets and strolled out to where we were standing. Giving us the silent dad look we all know so well, he took in the crater, the empty gas can laying on the lawn, the debris covered yard, and uttered these words.
" Have this mess cleaned up by dinnertime."
He turned and walked back to the steps, picked up the can and headed up to the garage and in for lunch.
First we grabbed a hose and as stupid as it sounds, started hosing off tree limbs, shrubs and the fence. You would think it wouldn't have taken very long, but there was a lot of branches and leaves covered with the populace of the ant hill.
Moving into panic mode, I grabbed a shovel and tried filling the crater in. I ran around the yard, skimming a little dirt here, a little dirt there, and tossing it into the hole. Although not really filled in, it wasn't as bad as it was a while ago.
Meanwhile our ant bites are starting to swell and itch, so my buddy does the best friend thing and runs for home to seek some motherly medical attention. I finished hosing everything off and stashing the evidence, then went looking for the Calamine lotion. You remember that stuff- smelled bad, went on smooth, then dried to a nice flaky pink residue that siblings and friends would find great glee in ridiculing you about.
That night at dinner, I waited for the lecture. But it didn't come at dinner. Or after. Or anytime. Looking back, I think it was on of those fatherly lessons, part of my "thinning of the herd theory".
You know, the "if it doesn't kill them they'll learn from it and never do it again" line of parental reasoning.
Yeah, right. But that my friends, is a story for another time.
