Last weekend the girls stayed at my mom and dad’s. Staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s is always an interesting experience. In addition to the treats that are only available there, being in your parent’s childhood home unaccompanied makes for prime snooping time. When I was little, overnights meant staying up late to watch bowling over a dish of ice milk. I could stumble across books my mom read as a child, or toys my dad played with, or leftover adolescent residue in their bedrooms. My own parents have moved from my childhood home, so my and my siblings’ childhood detritus has been neatened up a bit. Still, the Fischer Price farm set is available for my girls, just as when I was a kid, and the same recycled crafts are dragged out for Grandma’s instruction. This time, the gals and Grandma produced pom poms.
The girls also learned about Davy Crockett; my parents figured out how to use the DVR. In addition to catching up on Monk and Gunsmoke, they recorded a couple of the Disney Davy Crockett classics. Growing up, my entire family was well versed in Davy Crockett, thanks to my brother Pete. The kid was obsessed. He had a fake coonskin cap and musket by age four, and was devoted to the movies. We saw all of them multiple times, having recorded them onto VHS during Sunday night Disney Family Movie time.
Dad chose to introduce the girls to the classic, Davy Crockett and the River Pirates, featuring such seminal scenes as the trick shootout with Davy’s nemesis, Mike Fink, and the battle with the injuns, now shockingly inappropriate. The best scene, though, is when Mike Fink sings his personal anthem, Mike Fink, King of the River. Dad queued up the scene, and he and I joined in the singing, much to the girls slack-jawed amazement, complete with saucy hip twitches.
After I’d gone, they must have really dug into the Davy Crockett lore. Most notably Pete’s penchant for setting deer snares to try and catch my mother. After supper, while mom cleaned up in the kitchen, Pete donned his coonskin cap and fashioned snares out of jump ropes. Then he and my dad would give each other the signal–the old hoot owl–and shimmy on their bellies into the kitchen to set the snare behind mom at the sink. She was required to pretend not to notice the grown man and child slithering loudly on the linoleum behind her. We girls would have been in the other room, studiously ignoring the proceedings. When the signal was given, mom would somehow step into the jump rope snare, fall dramatically to the floor, and be strung up. I can’t remember what usually happened after that, but God bless her, right? I can’t stress enough: THIS HAPPENED REPEATEDLY!
So this morning, I opened the bathroom door and stepped neatly over the jump rope lying on my bedroom floor. I’m used to unexpected debris magically appearing in otherwise clean rooms. Then I noticed my 8-year-old attached to the end of the rope, looking at me with a look of malignant disappointment. Noted. The ol’ deer snare had been resurrected.
When I came down the stairs I noticed another hot pink loop of rope at the bottom of the stairs. Shoving aside my thoughts of lunches to be made and time running short, I made my way down, paused dramatically in the snare, and fell victim to the newest iteration of Davy Crockett, kind of the wild frontier.