THE GREAT PARACHUTE HEIST

Episode Two of The Willie Dog Chronicles

Two kids. One parachute. Zero brain cells.

A true Alabama survival story.

Before we knew anything about danger, consequences, or why parachutes aren’t meant for four- and five-year-olds, me and Willie Dog tried to take flight behind my parents’ restaurant.

That was the day my father quietly saved us from becoming a cautionary tale.

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THE ADVENTURE

Here’s the truth about me and Willie Dog: for two little boys—ages four and five—we packed more “adventures” into a couple of years than most kids rack up between pre-K and high school. Some kids colored inside the lines. We were too busy falling into grease traps or trying to jump off cliffs with stolen military gear.

Now, I can’t tell you which one of us started the most trouble, but I can tell you this:

The one you’re about to hear was not my idea.
This one had Willie Dog’s fingerprints all over it.

See, he was obsessed with the military. His dad had just come back from Vietnam, and right next door to the restaurant my parents ran sat an old Army–Navy surplus store. Closed, yes. Empty? Not a chance.

It was packed wall-to-wall with forgotten equipment… including parachutes.

And how did two little kids know that?

Simple:
We broke in. Frequently.

And listen — I say “broke in,” but really the place was held together by rust, dust, and plain old stubbornness.

Being the master burglars we imagined ourselves to be, we knew there was no lock we couldn’t conquer. It helped that there was no lock. But still… we felt dangerous.

Think of it as our own personal theme park—dustier, darker, and stocked with enough hazards to make an insurance adjuster pass out.

We were especially fond of the MRE poundcakes.
If childhood had a contraband bakery, that would’ve been the bestseller.
Those things could survive nuclear winter, but we ate ’em like Little Debbies.

One day, we decided we needed a parachute.
Not for decoration.
For flight.

Our plan was simple and stupid:

1. Steal the parachute.

2. Drag it up the hill behind the restaurant.

3. One of us jumps.

4. Pull the cord.

5. Float gently to the creek like pint-sized paratroopers.

This was our mindset. At four and five.

The big day finally arrives. Early summer. We’re in our standard uniforms—shorts, white T-shirts, and the kind of confidence only kids with undeveloped frontal lobes possess.

Shockingly, we actually get the parachute. Nobody sees a thing.

Then reality hits.
Those parachutes weighed like 50 pounds.
We weighed maybe forty each, and none of it was muscle.

We looked like two baby squirrels trying to drag an elephant.

Somehow, we made it. Huffing, sweating and convinced our mission was going exactly as planned.

We’re standing on the hill, overlooking the creek, parachute at the ready.

But now comes the tough part:
Who gets to jump?

Picture two undersized daredevils arguing over who gets to leap first, with zero awareness of gravity, impact, or injury.

All we knew was: it looked like fun.

Then…suddenly the light changed.

A shadow moved over us.
Slow. Heavy. Silent.

Not a cloud.
Not a hawk.
Not divine intervention.
Well… maybe divine intervention.

Junior.
My father.

Someone had tipped him off. There was always a snitch willing to rat out “those two boys always getting up to no good behind the restaurant.”

He had the staff, the regulars —every person in Barbour County, really—trained to keep an eye on me and Willie Dog. And, to be fair, we were always just one bad idea away from disaster.

Junior didn’t yell. Didn’t panic. Didn’t even pause.

He just scooped us up, one under each arm, like we weighed about as much as a grocery sack no one would’ve blamed him for returning.

Straight back down the hill to the restaurant we went.

He parked us in the kitchen for the rest of the day where at least six adults could keep us from sneaking off and trying to go airborne again.

Because at this point in his life, my father wasn’t just running a restaurant.
He was keeping two pint-sized daredevils from testing the limits of their luck.

And as for the parachute?
We never saw it again.
Shocking, I know.

And here’s the strangest part: that old Army–Navy store — the source of half our adventures and many of our bad ideas?

A few days later, it was just… gone.
Poof.

Like it had packed up in the middle of the night and slipped out of town.

Let’s just say… Junior had his ways.
Ways that tended to make temptations disappear.

A good father moves obstacles out of reach.
A great father makes sure some doors stay closed forever.

Junior wasn’t about to lose his only son over old surplus gear two little boys were never meant to get their hands on.

And honestly?
He made the right decision.

Kids today eat organic snacks and have helmets for everything.
We ate MRE poundcakes and tried to launch ourselves off a cliff.

And somehow?
We both lived to adulthood.

Some lessons you never learn.
Some you learn the hard way.
Others you survive because somebody loved you enough to make sure certain doors stayed closed.

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The Condition — where the best stories start with a bad idea.

If this stirred up a few childhood memories you probably shouldn’t put in writing, hit Subscribe. Willie Dog’s got one more tale coming — and it’s one you won’t want to miss.