This post is part one of a 3-part series
titled "Tomfoolery 101 With Professor Pops." It chronicles my
shenanigans with my father. To read part two, " 'Splosions," click your face. To read part three, "His Pyro Side," click your Mom's face.
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We're on our way into town when my dad suddenly pulls the car to the side of the road. "Let's go," he says, ejecting from the driver seat and walking straight into the forest. I am perplexed. This jungle of birch and oak trees surrounding a small pond in northern Minnesota is clearly not the hardware store we had set out for.
...
We're on our way into town when my dad suddenly pulls the car to the side of the road. "Let's go," he says, ejecting from the driver seat and walking straight into the forest. I am perplexed. This jungle of birch and oak trees surrounding a small pond in northern Minnesota is clearly not the hardware store we had set out for.
I hurry to catch up. "What are we doing, Dad?" I ask while swatting away the mosquitoes and horseflies that buzz around my head.
“You’ll see.”
I smell an adventure so I drop the questions and follow as he goes from dead tree to dead tree, shoving them as he meanders through the thick. He finds one that gives slightly with his push, and summons me over, looking toward the road for a passing car. I realize what comes next and a smile widens my face.
Once the coast is clear we push the birch in unison, keeping our eyes skyward. “You have to be careful the top doesn’t come crashing down on you,” he says while smiling. The tree rocks back and forth, teetering farther and farther. We hear a sudden crack, feel the tree give out, and watch as the pole shatters onto the ground.
“WOOO-OOT,” he shouts excitedly. “How about that!?!”
I temporarily set aside my teenage feelings of disgust for my father, because, that was pretty cool.
A search of the surrounding area yields a dozen more tired trees that need to lie down. We oblige every one of them.
I laugh to myself as we make our way back to the car, wondering why I am continually surprised by this small man. I look at him as he drives us away from the scene of our crimes and see his mischievous grin.
This is my pops: devout Catholic, husband of 40+ years, father of four, avid outdoorsman, homemade bomb enthusiast, pyromaniac, and tenured teacher of Tomfoolery 101.
…
My brother has been pretty blatant about his smoking habit. Lately he has been using gum wrappers to roll his tobacco and/or other smoke-able plants. I’m not blind to this, so when an idea explodes in my head to dry and smoke mint leaves, I go to my dad for approval. To my surprise, he not only gives me the O.K., but decides to join me in the adventure.
I grab a couple of gum wrappers and like my brother has inadvertently taught me, scrape the metallic covering off of the sticky, plasticy paper. Looking back, I realize how much of an idiot my brother was as the wrappers were probably filled with carcinogens and how much of an idiot I was to follow his example. But isn’t everything you smoke already chalked full of terribly bad-for-you things?
My dad and I harvest the largest leaves we can find from the cluster of mint growing next to the slab of concrete we call a basketball court. I slice the leaves with my Swiss Army knife and lay the thin strips on paper towels, letting the yellow orb in the sky emaciate the plant with its dehydration witchcraft. A few hours later the leaves are ready for further humiliation by flame.
My dad and I sit down and roll our mint joints. I’m still a little shocked he’s come along with me on this journey, with bad-idea potential written all over it, and he’s probably a little concerned that his 11-year-old knows how to roll a joint. We finish and grab the fire stick from the grill. Lighting them up we take a puff. The backs of our throats burn with smoke that tastes nothing like the fresh smelling plant that started this brain gem and we start convulsing with coughs. As our hacks dwindle, we lock bleary eyes and know that this isn’t a proud moment for either of us. Throwing out our joints, we grab some lemonade to cool our raw throats, and go our separate ways without words.
…
My paps started honing his art of shenanigans at a very young age. Placing third out of seven siblings, he had the trial-and-error guidance of his two older brothers, and the pressure to impress his four younger brothers and sisters. His days were filled with school, working on his uncle’s farm, and finding ways to spice up life in a town of less than 50 residents.
No wonder he loves blowing shit up.
READ part two of "Tomfoolery 101 With Professor Pops" by clicking here.
