Kid Caves, Submarines and Reincarnation

I’m finally making progress on my cave. No-No-NO it is NOT a man-cave. That has to be one of the silliest things that have happened in this decade. Let’s face it. There is a period in a man’s life between puberty and marriage when his number one focus is finding a woman who is willing to keep him company. Then something happens and he decides he needs a man-cave where he can hang out with the guys.

The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

If I remember singularity correctly (and I do) the only reason for hanging out with the guys was when there wasn’t a woman who would hang out with me. The man-cave thing reminds me of the prepubescent “boy’s clubs” with a, “no gurls a lowd” sign.

Another silly thing is the man-bag. I carried a diddy-bag for years and it is still around somewhere. It just made sense to carry a few necessities in case I ended up somewhere other than where I planned or forgot to go home.

My cave is going to be a kid-cave. I’m going to bury a big tank in the back yard and let the Grand-brats play in it. I never had a cave of my own as a kid and I’ve always felt I could have made good use of one. I did have one I claimed when I was in Tennessee but it wasn’t really mine since it was on someone else’s land; other folks used it too.

This isn’t some sort of silly spur-of-the-moment plan such as I am often accused of having. This one has been on my project list for years. I already have some stuff in inventory just waiting for it. One of the things is the hatch from an oil tanker. It has wheels on top and bottom to open it and it looks like it belongs on a submarine.

I may even make my cave a submarine cave, with one end a standard issue cave and the other with a submarine conning tower. It sounds great to me. All I’ll need is a periscope and, and…who knows where this one may end up?

I also built an island in the pond since I didn’t have my own island either. It was actually for my brats but it wasn’t ready for them when they were ready for it. Now it is in prime condition for the Grand-brats to build a pirate’s lair or whatever they want. That’s the great part of having Grand-brats and of being Faux Pa. Since I’m not responsible for their food, clothing, housing and education I can focus on the important things.

Years ago I wanted to buy them a cannon but for some reason my bride Management thought that was a bad idea. The best I could get approved was a potato cannon. Since Management is more concerned with the safety of the G-brats than she was with our kids I think I’ll just build the G-brats potato cannons under the permission given 20 years ago. After all it was never rescinded.

Last week I built them a little sulky to pull behind the lawnmower or whatever. This week I am going to put wagon shafts on it so it can also be a rickshaw. Then when the little one is sulky the bigger one can pull him in a sulky. Later I’m going to get a harness and let the dog pull them.

The G-brats are also the reason for the garden. Two weeks ago I planted peppers, beans, squash and some other compost. Last week I added some ‘taters, onions and carrots. I figured having everything on hand to make a stew might just keep the chickens on their toes (or whatever they have).

My little new chicks are now the equivalent of chicken teenagers and they are outgrowing the pen. I just moved them to the pen with the older hens. The adjustment is going well except one of the old hens keeps pecking at the teenagers.

I’m pretty sure I knew that old biddy before she was reincarnated as a chicken. She wandered around looking happy and pleasant but every chance she got she took a peck at anyone who got in her way. I’d throw her in the stewpot but she left a bad taste in my mouth in her first incarnation and I’m betting she hasn’t improved in this one.