We had an incredible Christmas this past year. One of those holidays that was so wonderful because we did nothing, had no travel, and had nobody over. It was divine!
During the Christmas break, the men of the house poured over a Christmas gift from the woman of the house. A book called “Backyard Ballistics”. Before I knew it, the boys were coming home with things like lighter fluid, hairspray, PVC piping, long matchsticks, bags of potatoes, Pringles cans, duct tape, and things I don’t have names for. For two days a flurry of activity took place in the kitchen and in the garage.
When the moment came to actually perform the launch, our son elected to do his “video” time, rather than witness the fruition of those hours of hard work.
EEEERRRRR. Stop the tape.
I was about ready to turn the boy inside out, but Tom Builder had given him a choice, and Mr. Incredible handled the side issue of our son’s ridiculous indecisiveness (not wanting to disappoint Dad, but really wanting to do PS2 Star Wars for the 5oth time) with stunning ease. Our Princess of Wails, on the other hand, knows good Daddy time when she sees it, and was all about launching potatoes out into the pasture.
And so this is how it came to pass that two girls and the man of the house found themselves strapping our self made potato cannon to a paddock gate to prepare for her maiden launch.
None of us were quite sure of what to expect, but Mr. Incredible had high hopes of launching potatoes to infinity and beyond. What none of us were expecting was the enormous sonic boom generated by a squirt of hairspray, a spark, and a mere potato! The launch was a complete success with potatoes blasting far out into our first pasture, while Ken and I giggled over how loud the gun was. So ear busting, that we could only convince ourselves to launch five potatoes for fear that the cops would be at our door in another five minutes. Who knew that plunging potatoes into pastures could be so much fun for grown men?
So if you knock at the door, and no one answers, head around back. We’re probably just shooting spuds.








