It’s ‘squash bug stomping time’

Dud was heading home in his pickup truck when he saw the strange goings-on at the Bahdziewicz place. Abraham Lincoln Bahdziewicz was out in the family’s large garden with a full complement of kids who were happily hopping around. Some of the kids came from the neighborhood, but most of them were homegrown Bahdziewicz kids.

The Bahdziewicz family had a great garden, and went at the whole thing scientifically and in great fun, because this is one family that runs short on cash but long on kids.

Dud pulled over and watched for a minute as Abe laughingly directed the family dancers doing the vegetable boogie through the various rows of the huge garden.

“What’s going on, Abe?” yelled Dud. “Squash bug stomping time,” Abe said, turning over another board lying next to the vegetables. As soon as the board was flipped over, a plethora of Bahdziewicz kids stomped the bugs flat. “It’s the kids’ favorite time in the garden.”

The third-grader, John Kennedy Bahdziewicz, said, “Flip another board, Dad.”

“Hold it!” Dud yelled. “Not another move until I get back, okay? I’ll be back here in five minutes. Five minutes!”

Abraham Lincoln Bahdziewicz looked at his oldest son, Woodrow Wilson Bahdziewicz and they both shrugged. The rest of the family stopped, too. Dud peeled out in the pickup and was back in less than two minutes.

“Okay,” Dud yelled. “Let’s do the squash bug stomp the right way!”

And he strapped on his accordion and fired up a grand polka as boards were flipped over and the exposed squash bugs were dispatched in record polka time.

Sometimes just living here can be an awful lot of fun.

Brought to you by the posthumous prance that sent all those squash bugs to insect heaven. Don’t eat them.