Quit Your Kidding (or hiding)

quit your kidding

When I first read this button, I read it “Quit Your Hiding.”  So the story below, the one originally published about a year ago is about hiding.  Then someone posted saying, “Doesn’t that say Kidding.” Yeah, reading and spelling never were my strong suits.

This is another of those buttons from the 40s. This one seems like a kind of creepy, stalkery. The one time I remember hiding, when I really didn’t want to be found, was on a Fourth of July. For reasons of lack of rain, or jumping on the safety bandwagon, or some kind of general unamericanism, our little town had put a ban on the use of fireworks. Well, that got me and my three main buds pretty fired up, partly on principal, partly because at least one of us had invested in a paper bag full of fire crackers and bottle rockets. When night fell we put our foolproof plan into action. These fireworks would get shot off, oh they would get shot off.

We drove out to the fairgrounds, and two of us at one end of the street, and two of us at the other, we took turns launching bottle rockets at each other. When those were gone we started in on the firecrackers. At one point head lights appeared and we fled, every man for himself. Mike ran into a sale barn. He didn’t see the chain that had been pulled across the entrance. It caught him about hip-high and flipped him over onto his face. Good times, good times.

Once the danger was gone and we’d regrouped, we found we still had a few fire crackers left. We drove to the Skid’s house which was just across the street from the high school. High on patriotism and adrenalin from the recent chase, we stood in front of the school, lighting one Black Cat after another and gaily tossing them into the air to explode over our heads. That’s when the spotlight hit us. First we froze. Then we bolted the opposite direction of the patrol car that was headed our way. We turned the corner, sprinted a few steps down the one way street, and dove into the bushes. It was just Mike Skid and me. I don’t know what happen to the other two. We knelt in the bushes, head down, an appropriate pose for the situation, trying to make ourselves as small as possible. As the cop car easssssssed by, the spotlight swinging back and forth over our position, I whispered to Mike without moving my mouth, “We’re dead.” He responded in his own motionless whisper, “Shut up.” When the car had passed we didn’t hesitate. We burst from the bushes and sprinted back to Mike’s house in record time. The other two were already there. We collapsed onto the couch, happy for our freedom. It had been a successful Independence Day. God bless America.

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