Manure Wars!

Being a poor kid living in Knox County, we didn't have a lot of the luxuries that more well off folks had. For instance, up until I was 8 years old, we didn't have indoor plumbing and were forced to use an outhouse to do our business. (For more info on outhouses, see this link.) We also didn't have a lot of games and toys either so we made up stuff to do, like the outside games that I mentioned in this earlier post.

Probably one of the most inventive and fun games that we played was "Manure Wars". Yep, it's exactly the way it sounds. You see, living beside cows, mules, horses, goats, etc., there was always an abundance of ammunition available to us. Picking the proper ammo was an art form. You didn't want it to be too fresh, yet you didn't want it to be too old either. I became a master at picking out the perfect poo. My all-time favorite was the large cow piles that had been around for about 3 days. Just enough time for the top to get nice and firm, yet pliable enough underneath to cause some serious misery for my prey. Mule droppings were also a favorite but I always tried to be merciful when using them, as they tend to do some major damage to the neck and face area if they are too hard.

One Manure War that stands out the most in my mind, is the time Kevin and I were having a battle Royal out in my Papaw Chesney's cow pasture. It was a hot summer day; the field was loaded down with a wide assortment of ammo. Cow piles and mule balls both new and old were scattered about. I had walked the battlefield and knew all of the perfect locations to restock. We were slinging manure at each other in a rapid-fire succession. I had been hit several times and things weren't looking good. I had already depleted my supply and was looking around for more. I gazed across the road at our neighbor’s field. My, my, but it sure looked heavenly with mounds of good-sized piles. I made a break for the fence, hit the ground rolling, and narrowly made it through the bottom row of barbed wire. I made a wild dash across the road, stepped on the middle row of fence wires, and sprang across the top and into the field. I took a look behind me and Kevin was hot on my trail. He was skinny and a little faster than I was, so I was giving it all I had. I figured if I could run hard enough and cross the makeshift railroad tie bridge that was straddling the width of Roseberry Creek, then I could hit the railroad tracks and be gone. My short husky legs were going as hard as they could go. I jumped onto the makeshift bridge and would have been free, but in my stupidity, I turned back and looked at the enemy. During the mad chase, Kevin had picked up the perfect pile and had it reared back in the palm of his hand. I barely even saw it coming as it hit me full force in the chest and neck, knocking me backwards off of the bridge and into the middle of the creek. I was covered in cow manure and my chest was stinging from the forceful blow that I had taken. I looked up the creek bank and there stood Kevin, laughing his head off. I guess I was lucky. He could have bombarded me in my weakened and wet position, but he reached down with his hand and helped me out. Afterwards, we sat on the creek bank and laughed ourselves silly.

I haven't been in a manure war in about 30 years now. I'm sure it isn't as great as I remember it to be, but heck, I wouldn't mind finding out!

Moral of this story: Always know your enemy, and hope he's your friend.