My Dad takes pride in having a nice lawn. Regular fertilization, weekly mowing and watering during dry hot weather kept the lawn at our old house lush green and fairly weed free (cept for those occasional pesky dandelions). It was a lush blanket of green. It was a lawn to roll on, a lawn to pick out animal shapes in the clouds on. That is, except for the mole holes.
They were everywhere around the foundation. There was a spot at the top of a small hill where an old well once was that was a particular favorite place for the burrowing rodents. As a kid I loved all things furry even moles, until I found out the little fuckers have pretty sharp teeth. After being bitten hard enough to draw blood, I didn't think moles were so cute. I developed a dislike to them much like my Dad, though for different reasons.
I had no reservations with my Dad's desire to rid our yard of the burrowing fanged beasts. Nowadays they have simple little posts that you can tap into the ground to rid your yard of these pests. These posts emit sound waves that the blind bastards hate, so they flee the area. That technology didn't exist 30 years ago, so my Dad resorted to good old New England ingenuity.
Burning them out of house and home seemed like a good plan. Pour gasoline in the holes, light a match - end of story, right?
Dad filled each of the holes with a generous helping of gas. There were a dozen or so around the old well. He struck the match, smiled and tossed it in one of the holes. Nothing happened. Then, wisps of smoke rising out of a couple of the holes. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to be standing over the area with a can full of gas, he thought. He picked up the still fairly full can and decided to vacate the area. Then he heard, no felt something. A gentle rumbling in the ground, building, getting louder. Better pick up the pace here as his steps quickened.
It was a very localized quake, probably would register as much as a large semi truck on the Richter scale. Then there was a loud WHOOOOSH as flames and smoke shot out of the dozen or so mole holes. It was over in a heartbeat. Dad stood in the middle of it all, gas can still in hand, the blood completely drained from his face. He looked almost ghostly he was so pale. Dad was shaken, had a few more gray hairs, but none the worse for wear.
Gotta hand it to that ol' New England ingenuity - we never saw another mole again.