When we were kids, we spent many summer days at my aunt and uncle’s place. The wonderful thing about it was that there weren’t any real TVs to sit around and watch, so there was always something to do on my uncle’s small farm. He had horses to ride, woods and fields to roam, and as long as you didn’t break any laws, you were pretty much free to do whatever your heart desired.
Our camping party was a crew of four. First was my cousin Chuck, three years older than me and very much our leader. He was tall and muscular, and we all looked up to him — physically and emotionally. Then there was Jeff, about a year and a half younger than I was. He was smaller, skinny and short, but solid as a fence post. My uncle always said he was tougher than nails, and joked that he’d rather fight you than look at you. My brother Teddy came next, eleven months younger than me. I always described him as a string bean — athletic, quick, and fast on his feet. And then there was me, a chubby guy with a size somewhere between my younger brother and Chuck. In my mind, that made me second in command.
One thing that still amazes me today is how supportive my aunt was of our trip. The funny part is, she may not have even known what we were up to. It might have been one of those times when it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Honestly, I just can’t remember. Looking back now, I think she missed the chance to write her own story about that day and title it “The Great Kitchen Heist — How the Boys Wiped Out My Kitchen One Summer.”
We planned our food and gathered our supplies. I remember us grabbing a pot, a large cast‑iron skillet, plates, forks, spoons, and case knives. I think we took bacon, bread, bologna, eggs, cheese, mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, and another loaf of bread. Then we raided the house for blankets and anything we could sleep on, plus a tarp and rope for a shelter.
Then we had to figure out how to get our well‑needed supplies to the camp. I remember going out to catch the horses. My uncle had a special whistle he taught us — a soft, circular, rolling kind of whistle. The trick was simple: whistle, get them coming, and then drop two or three whole heads of corn into the feeder boxes. Each horse would go to its own box and start eating. While they were distracted, we’d slip up beside them, put an arm over the neck, and gently pull the bridle up and over the head and ears. Once the bridle was on, we knew we had them.
With the horses caught, we headed to the barn to gather the rest of the tack. One thing I’ve always loved about horses is the scent of the tack barn — that blend of leather, hay, dust, and horse that’s impossible to describe but unforgettable. After we got what we needed, we led the horses up to the house.
We gathered our supplies, the food, and a roll of twine, and tied everything we owned to the saddles. The smaller things went into burlap bags that we draped over the sides. I don’t remember exactly how it looked, but I imagine anyone watching would’ve thought we were setting out on a great expedition. What I do remember clearly is how proud we were — convinced we were clever, prepared, and downright ingenious with everything we had accomplished so far.
It was finally time to head out. Chuck’s little sister, Caroline, wanted to go with us. She was tough as they come, but small and petite. I remember all of us boys telling her, “No!” This was going to be too hard for girls to tag along. In our minds, this was a he‑man trip — no girls allowed.
So we headed out. I remember Chuck opening the electric fence and letting us slip through. We walked toward what felt like the farthest corner of the farm. Back then it seemed like we were miles from home, though now I know it was only five or six hundred yards from the barn.
We found the perfect spot — a level patch of ground under some trees, close to the pasture and just over the fence from the neighbor’s pond (which we had permission to use). When we arrived, we tied out the horses and unpacked everything onto the ground. I don’t remember any fussing or arguing. It was like we all knew exactly what needed to be done, and we did it together. Chuck, being the tallest, set up the ridge line for the tarp. Jeff, Teddy, and I gathered rocks for the fire pit and wood for the fire. After the tarp was stretched tight, we each claimed our spot and rolled out our blankets for a bedroll. We stretched out for a while, and I remember feeling happy — like we were living as kings.
After a while, we started making plans. First, we had to wait for dark. Then we were going to the pond to gig frogs, cook our supper, and sit by the fire trying to outdo each other with the scariest ghost story.
The sun went down, and the last bit of light faded from the sky. The crickets, cicadas, and every other bug in the county started their nightly chirps and buzzes. One thing I can still see when I close my eyes is the fireflies — thousands of them crawling up the tall grass in the pasture and taking off into the air with their yellow bottoms blinking. It’s something I think I’ll remember forever.
Chuck, being the keeper of the matches, started the fire, and everything was going just the way we planned. If you haven’t noticed, there are two times during the night that are the darkest — a few minutes before the moon comes up after the sun has gone down, and again when the moon sets just before the sun rises. I remember being in that hollow, and it being really dark — coal‑black dark. The kind of dark where the edges of your flashlight look like they’re hitting a solid wall. This was one of those times. Chuck had the only flashlight we owned, one of those blocky square ones with a handle
Before long, we started hearing the deep baritone bellows of bullfrogs coming from the pond. So we grabbed the gig fork we’d brought and headed that way. With a little convincing, we talked Jeff and Teddy into being the ones to carry the gig. Since each of us only had one set of clothes, the decision was made that they would take off their pants, socks, and shoes and wade around the edge of the pond. Chuck and I stayed up on the bank with the flashlight and the bucket for whatever frogs they managed to catch.
After a while, there were a couple of near catches, and then the pond went still. Jeff and Teddy had stirred up the bottom, and you could see cloudy trails behind them where they’d walked. That’s when Chuck elbowed me and said he had an idea — we’d let them get out into the deeper end of the pond, and then we’d take off running back to camp with the light. We waited for the perfect moment, then took off running, up over the fence and back to camp, laughing the whole way. As we ran, I heard Teddy and Jeff splashing out of the pond, grabbing their clothes, and running barefoot right behind us. They were furious, and Chuck and I were laughing our heads off.
Their anger didn’t last long. Before we knew it, everything had turned back into laughter and more joking around. To this day, Jeff will grin and hug me when he sees me, and he’ll say that someday he and Teddy are going to get even for all the foolish things Chuck and I talked them into — or the pranks we pulled.
We had no frogs to eat, so we turned to our supplies. Chuck asked if I knew how to cook over a fire, and I told him with full confidence, “Sure I do.” I grabbed some bologna and bacon, put it in the cast‑iron skillet, and set it over the open flame. At first it went great — the bacon sizzled, the smell was good, and everyone was waiting. Then, without warning, the fire jumped over the sides of the pan and in an instant engulfed everything. I remember the heat, the panic, and the realization that there was nothing I could do to stop it. When the flames finally died down, everything in that skillet was reduced to charcoal. The boys were disappointed, and Chuck said, “You said you knew how to cook over a fire, right?” All I could say was that I thought I did. We were a little let down, but we still had some bologna and bread left, so we sat back and ate our cold dinner.
We sat around the fire for a while, looking up at the stars. Chuck noticed lightning way off in the distance, and the breeze had shifted from a light wisp to something more serious. That’s when we realized we didn’t have the gear for rain. We started packing up and taking down camp. In the rush, we didn’t tie things back on the saddles nearly as carefully as we had earlier.
We started back home in the dark, and for some reason our flashlight had stopped working. We worked our way toward the barn, and when we got close to the electric fence, we saw a white ghost coming straight at us. Then we heard a scream. All four of us took off running toward the house lights, dragging the horses behind. I remember Teddy yelling, “Lordy… Lordy!” I don’t even remember how we crossed the electric fence — we must have jumped it or run straight through.
When we finally reached safety of the front porch of the house, we looked back and saw my Dad and Caroline. Dad was laughing, and Caroline was crying. Then came the explanation. They had decided to sneak out and scare us, but they hadn’t taken a light. Back then, Dad almost always wore a white T‑shirt and dark blue Sears and Roebuck jeans. Our “ghost” was his white shirt coming toward us. The scream happened when Caroline bumped into the electric fence in the dark.
As I look back on that time, I’m thankful for the freedom our parents, aunts, and uncles gave us. It gave us room to explore, to learn lessons we might not have learned otherwise. It also let us build a bond with each other in a way that’s hard to explain. We were creating memories that would last a lifetime — even though, at the time, we had no idea that’s what we were doing.