FLAMING POO

I am so ashamed. I admit it. I feel I should make restitution, somehow. My only defense is that I never knew, not until just now.

I am married to a Flaming Poo Warrior. Former juvenile delinquent, to be more precise.

Before becoming a Christian, Jack did many things he shouldn't have. The usual drinking, some drugs, reckless driving, unsavory women...and now adding to the list flaming poo.

Apparently what you do, not that I would EVER KNOW, is put some dung, the fresher the better, and place it carefully in a paper bag. Light the bag on fire, and once it's good and blazing, set it on the person's doorstep, ring the doorbell, and run away. The poor person opens the door, sees the fire, and immediately attempts to stomp it out.

What horror! What cruelty! What wickedness! What a lot like what my own grandpa did!

Grandpa was not always the fine, upstanding missionary gentleman that he is now. He was a boy once, and a very naughty one at that. When a member of the community annoyed him, he would find creative ways of getting even. And grouchy old Mrs. Fernandes really, really annoyed him.

Enlisting the aid of Emmy, his best friend and frequent partner in crime, Grandpa scouted around for the best possible horse apples he could find, and slipped them into a paper bag. (Note for any city children: horse apples are not really apples at all. You didn't think cow pies were edible, did you?)

He and Emmy went up the steps onto Mrs. Fernandes' porch and knocked on the screen door. The elderly woman shuffled over to see who it was, and eyed the two suspiciously. Butter wasn't melting in their mouths. "What do you want?" she finally snapped.

Smarmy doesn't begin to describe it. "Here you go," Grandpa oozed, smiling winningly, "Here are some nice, fresh cookies my mom baked just for you."

Suspicion melting into smiles, she took the bag. "Oh, tell your mudder tanks, tell your mudder tanks," she beamed, and shuffled away. Chortling, Grandpa and Emmy ran around the corner and peeked back, watching for the explosion. It was not long in coming.

Violently, the screen door banged open and crashed into the wall. The bag of "cookies" flew through the air so fast and so far it turned heads at SETI, propelled by a slipper-clad but very spry foot. The language would have humbled a sailor.

Not many minutes had gone by before a complaint was registered with Pop, Grandpa's dad. Sternly he called Grandpa in to account for his actions. By the end of the vivid description, Pop "oh ho ho ho'ed" with the rest of them. And if he then "oh ho ho'ed" all the way to the woodshed, it was surely a well-deserved lickin'.

Mrs. Fernandes has been gone for many, many years, but the memory of her and the athletic prowess of her right foot still lives on. I'm sure she would be flattered.

Suddenly eyeing all paper bags askance,

Noni Beth