I was walking to the parking garage after work today and overheard the loud goodbye ceremonies going on among a group of young and middle-aged ladies. As they were hugging and saying good-bye, one of the older ladies loudly admonished one of them: “You be good now!” I started reflecting on why this has even become a part of our farewell vocabulary. As a parent, I’ve said the same phrase to my kids with limited expectations on whether it made a difference but for adults? I can tell you that at no time in either my childhood or adulthood was I on the brink of making a questionable life choice when I suddenly remembered, “Oh! I promised Uncle X or Neighbor Z that I would be good. Let me rethink this.” Never happened–ever.

Speaking of questionable life choices across the lifespan, I’m convinced that age doesn’t necessarily confer wisdom or discernment, especially among the male species when it comes to–ahem–explosive devices. Let me explain. . .

Trevor has long held a fascination with discovering how to make things explode or go fast. May I refer you to earlier blog posts about attempting to make a rocket out of a 5 gallon water jug and hairspray. . .

Anyway, a year ago, Trevor decided that he wanted to experiment with a leftover pumpkin and a stray firecracker he had managed to find. I was driving to a work event through rush hour traffic and my husband was trying to get home through the same traffic mess. As I’m finally pulling off of the interstate, I get a phone call from Lane, asking tensely when Forrest would be getting home. Sensing that something was up, I kept questioning him until he finally cracked and stated that a firework had exploded in Trevor’s face and he couldn’t see. Of course every alarm bell is going off as I turn around and head towards home. Lane is begging me not to come home or miss the event. I’m trying to assess the damage by asking questions. I get the following tale:

Trevor chopped up the pumpkin and placed the firecracker in a pipe and a chunk of pumpkin. He lit the firecracker, hoping to make the pumpkin chunk shoot out of the pipe like a cannon. After lighting the fuse, nothing happened so he decided to have a look-see down the pipe. Yup–should have waited. It exploded right in his face. How he escaped serious injury is beyond me. I asked him to text me a selfie of his face so I could see how badly he was hurt. Thankfully, the picture looked pretty good with just an irritated eye, soot stains on his face, and a few minor abrasions. Because he was complaining of continuous pain in his eye, I decided to take him to the ER for evaluation as I wasn’t sure if he had shrapnel in his eye or retinal damage. When I picked him up, he was very subdued and apologized multiple times for being so stupid.

By some miracle, he sustained no retinal damage and had only minor corneal abrasions. We had to visit the ophthalmologist a couple of times but things ended fairly well. We reinforced the foolishness of engaging in such experiments again and all was quiet for a year.

This fall, after Thanksgiving, I had 2 pumpkins left that were likely to rot fairly soon. Knowing that the boys and Forrest enjoy smashing large gourds, I offered up my fall decor for their destructive pleasure. I expected a great smashing fest, etc. However, I heard Forrest muttering about possibly putting a firecracker in one pumpkin and setting it off. Figuring that he is a responsible adult and knowing that he was supervising the pumpkin destruction, I paid little attention to the goings on in the backyard.

I noticed that Trevor was feverishly working all afternoon outdoors. In the meantime, my mother-in-law came over to visit. As we were chatting in the living room about the baby, she casually mentioned that Trevor was waiting for Forrest so he could set off the firecracker to explode a pumpkin. Her exact words: “I don’t know if that’s going to be strong enough to do anything–right?” I agreed with her but had this small niggling doubt–I’ve seen Trevor’s handiwork before. However, surely it couldn’t be as bad and Forrest was supervising so all was in control.

Five minutes later, the house shook with a concussion that felt as if a train had hit the house. 30 seconds later, Forrest, Lane, Brooke and Trevor ran to the front door. Lane was holding his arm, trying to hold it together but clearly terrified–“I’ve been hit by shrapnel! I’m afraid to look!” As I moved his hand, I saw a small abrasion and welt on his arm and also on his abdomen but no wounds made by shrapnel. After reassuring him that he was not dying and his arm wasn’t falling off, the four scuttled into the house. Apparently, Lane was hit by a couple pumpkin chunks. Forrest hurriedly pulled the curtains and closed the blinds. Lane loudly proclaimed that the police were coming and they were going to be arrested. Forrest looked pale and hurriedly ran from one window to the other, peeking outside for the authorities who must surely be on their way. We sat down to eat dinner, but the kids and Forrest could barely settle enough to eat–adrenaline still pumping.

Trevor was fairly quiet but had a happy satisfied expression. After all, he knew he wasn’t taking the fall for this if someone showed up–he had adult supervision this time.

Suddenly, Forrest went white and rushed to the kitchen window. “Fire rescue’s here! Oh my gosh, what was I thinking?! Never again!” Meanwhile, Trevor is asking to see the video that Forrest apparently shot of the event.

After 10-15 tense minutes of waiting for a knock at the door, the trucks left. Forrest wilted in relief and the other kids began excitedly recounting the explosion–suddenly it was all a great lark. Apparently, Forrest had allowed Trevor to add a little gunpowder to the mortar and add a long fuse–hence the atomic explosion. The video shows Trevor lighting the fuse as the others wait behind the shed. He runs away fast–at least he learned that much–and Lane nonchalantly observes that maybe it’s not going off. Just as Trevor explains that it’s not safe to go check, the pumpkin is annihilated into pumpkin sauce. Lane starts yelping that he’s been hit by shrapnel, Brooke can be seen scrabbling for the back door, and Forrest, heretofore the cool, collected narrator is barking for everyone to get inside in clipped, nervous tones. Photos of the aftermath show bits of pumpkin covering the shed and yard and a bald, grass-less crater where the pumpkin once stood. Oh yes, it was a mighty explosion.

Hours later, Forrest was still deep in regret over his questionable life decisions of the afternoon. Thankfully, no one was hurt. But I don’t think they will be exploding pumpkins next year, at least I hope not.

So until next time–you be good now, ya hear? 😉