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We busied ourselves building a fort in the hayloft of the old barn. While Dale, Scott and Bill excavated a tunnel to another secret chamber, I nudged a block into place on one of the turrets.
Hay bales are king-sized Legos for farm kids.
"Throw me another block," I hollered.
Cousin Ollie swung a bale up to me -- or maybe at me. I ducked. The 75-pound bale toppled over the turret and crashed to the floor 10 feet below.
"Watch it," I yelped at Ollie. "The weak spot is on that side."
Ollie peered over the turret. "Weak spot?"
"Yeah," I said, shaking seeds and clover from my baseball cap. "See that divot in the floor? It's spongy. If you break through the rotted planks, you'll drop right on top of the cows below."
"That doesn't sound so bad."
"Our cows have horns."
"Oh."
Then that look exploded into Ollie's eyes, the one that means another "Great Idea" just flashed through whatever he used for a brain. Shivers shot down my spine. Tingles lit up all the spots where Ollie's previous "Great Ideas" had scarred me with cuts, bruises and bandages. "Oh, no. No, no, no. Don't you dare…"
But he'd already clambered down the fort. Dale, Scott and Bill scrambled behind him. I stood a dozen feet back and repeated, "No"
Ollie toed the weak spot. The boards quivered. The cracks looked longer and deeper than the last time I'd studied them.
Ollie grinned. "Let's see who can jump the highest on the weak spot without crashing through the boards."
"NO!" I shouted.
Scotty rubbed his chin. "I bet I could do it."
"I'm lighter on my feet," Dale said.
"You go first," Bill said. "If you don't break it, I'll know it's safe."
"No way!" I scratched my ear. "At least, I don't think so. Maybe. I mean, it is still there."
Here's the thing about 8-year-old boys. The more of them you collect in one place, the lower their combined IQ plummets.
None of us alone would be stupid enough to find out how many times you had to jump on the weak boards in the hayloft before it broke and you plunged onto cow horns.
But two of us would speculate on the odds, three of us would poke the weak spot, four of us would stomp on it, and five or more of us would be convinced that this would be the greatest experiment of all time.
We'd also hope somebody's little brother had tagged along so we could use him to ferret out the finer details, such as crashing through the floor to the lower recess of the barn. A herd of us 8-year-old boys might be stupid, but we ain't crazy!
"Where's Timmy?" Ollie asked.
"No, you're not using my little brother as a cow bomb."
"Oh, good, that means you volunteered instead. Stand right here."
"I'll get Tim."
"No, you're already here." Ollie dragged me to the weak spot. "Jump as high as you can!"
The other boys crowed, "C'mon fraidy-cat chicken liver, jump!"
I'm no fraidy-cat chicken liver. And the enthusiasm of a pack of 8-year-old boys had piqued my curiosity. What would it hurt to find out?
And that's how I discovered that cows -- especially cows with horns -- aren't big fans of surprises dropping in unannounced. Cows also get really good range tossing 8-year-old boys across a barn.
Oh, and I also learned where the real weak spot was -- hidden beneath my baseball cap.
-- Jump into other down-on-the-farm adventures with Cole at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com, the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook or www.burtonwcole.com.