The Firewood Caper

I haven’t heard hardly a peep outta my little brother in weeks. I’ve posted this one at least once before–maybe twice–and he ain’t said a word about it. I can’t figure why that is, so I’m going to bait him a little bit and see if I cain’t draw him outta the water. That’s where I figure he is; doing that kite dancing he’s so fond of.Here’s a quick little fun story for ya. The names have not been changed because it doesn’t really matter, and if it does, Ken and Ski can sue me! Surely they’ve heard the term, “You can’t get blood from a turnip.” Which in southern-speak translates to, “I ain’t got nothin’, so knock yerself out!”

So, any way, me, Ski, and his wife, who will remain nameless—she won’t sue me, but she’ll kick my butt if I mention her name—drove down from Tacoma to Boise, where Ken was building a building of some kind for the developer we both worked for at the time.

We had gone out and terrorized the locals pretty well, and when we got back to Ken’s house it was snowing, and being the penny-pincher Ken was/is, it was fairly frigid in the house. I suggested we build a fire in the fireplace, to which I received the reply from Ken, “Good idea, but we don’t have any firewood.”

For whatever reason, we wound up on the back porch—it was even colder out there—and as we stood there shivering, I noticed the neighbor had a nice stack of split wood stacked against the back of his house. I told Ski, “Jump over the fence and grab us a few sticks of that wood, Ski?”

I won’t print what he said, but the condensed, laundered version was, “That ain’t gonna happen!”

I’m a rather persistent sort, and not much time had elapsed when I had Ski convinced the caper was a no-brainer, win/win situation, and we could soon be sitting in front of a crackling, roaring fire, sipping on wine coolers or something along that line.

I was as shocked as anyone, when ol’ Ski suddenly vaulted the fence and crept stealthily to the woodpile, leaving telltale tracks in the snow as he went. Brother Ken’s sixth sense—which translates to, he knows his brother too well—kicked in, he muttered a profanity, and hustled himself, his wife, Jackie, and Susie (oops—butt kickin’ comin’) into the house. I gave him a knowing grin then turned to watch as Ski reached out and took a stick of firewood in each hand.

He had just turned to come back to me, a huge grin on his face, when he realized–I could tell this by the horrified look on his face–his grin was no match for mine. He knew he’d been had before the words left my mouth.

I tilted my head back, cupped my hands around my mouth to ensure maximum volume, and shouted as loud as I could, “SOMEBODY’S STEALIN’ YER FIREWOOD!”

Susie and Jackie pummeled me mercilessly–they won’t admit it now, but they were giggling like schoolgirls–as I ran into the house. When Ski came stumbling in, mere seconds later, he had a look that was part fear; part I’m-gonna-kick-your-butt, part what-an-idiot-I-am, on his face. He looked at me with eyes as big as baseballs and said, “I can’t believe you did that.”

I have to tell you folks, I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard those six words.

1 Comment »

  1. Sherry Mashburn said

    Contributing to the deliquency of a minor intelligence . . . tsk, tsk

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