I saw the rib cage first.

Last week, around 5 p.m., the heavens opened and Lincoln County received a couple inches of rain.

Trying to wait out the downpour before I headed home, I semi-cleaned my office, filling up the trash can with empty strawberry limeades along with an assortment of notes and newspapers.

As the thuderstorms subsided, I dashed outside to empty the trash.

That’s when I saw the ribs, obscured by brush and weeds.

To say I paused would be an understatement.

My split-second reaction and assessment was these ribs were too small to be human, at least not an adult. I panicked for a second with the horrific thought I found the remains of a child.

Then it dawned on me I was only seeing bones. If someone dumped a body, human or animal, I would have smelled it for several weeks.

Plus, the “bones” were too white. This thing was obviously some sort of Halloween decoration intended for the dumpster.

Thinking I found a Dollar General skeleton, I reached down and grabbed the ribs. To my surprise, I saw a jaw with large “fangs.” Turns out, the “skeleton” was one of those animatronic, demon-possessed wolves you can find at any Menards.

For a brief instant, I thought about throwing away my new find. But where some saw garbage, I saw potential.

Potential for a prank.

I may be in my mid-50s, but when it comes to practical jokes, I have the mind of a teenager.

I remember my first childhood prank fondly. It required days of preparation, convincing my four-year-old brother his Incredible Hulk underoos were the same as shorts.

I showed him pictures in a catalog of children playing in their favorite Superhero-branded underwear. And when a commercial came on television showing the same, the next morning, my brother was frolicking throughout the neighborhood, just him and the Hulkster.

It took about an hour for my sister to discover what I’d done and she promptly ratted me out to my mother, who did not see the humor.

Since then, my pranks bordered on the simple such as toilet-papering sibling’s bedrooms to the more involved such as placing sod in a dormitory bathroom.

While most people mature as they age, the older I get the more immature I become in that regard. And nothing spurned that behavior more than having children.

My son, as the oldest, fell victim first. He had just watched the first Star Wars movie and was playing in the front yard. I don’t remember why, but he pointed at a lamp post. Standing inside, I flipped the switch, turning the light on.

My son cocked his head, puzzled. Naturally, he pointed again at the light.

Off it went.

At this point, I could see the excitement.

Point. On.

Point. Off.

After about 30 seconds of this, he runs inside telling his mom he has The Force and can turn on the outside light by just pointing at it.

My wife knew what happened. Me doubled over laughing probably helped with that assessment.

Later that day, we all took a walk. The poor boy must have pointed at a dozen street lamps before he realized he wasn’t the next Luke Skywalker.

Since then, I’ve jumped out of closets and hidden under beds, waiting to grab a child’s unsuspecting ankle.

I’ve even used props, putting on a mask in a failed attempt to trick the kids into thinking I was a confused stranger, looking for directions.

But this time, I had a new prop. It was time to strike terror into my children’s hearts.

Or at least try.

I got home and set the dog up outside the front door.

The first victim, curiously, was the real dog, Ella.

She wanted out and when I opened the door, she hesitantly leaned in, gave it a sniff, tucked her tail and headed to the back door.

My first victim.

My previously-traumatized son was next. He and I were headed out for groceries and I let him lead the way.

He too paused and muttered a “what the” before I quietly ushered him out so as not to raise suspicion with the others.

“I’ll admit, for half-a-second, I thought it was real,” he conceded.

While not a major scare, I’ll take it. My second victim.

Later that evening, I let the dog out for a final time and told my wife, who was still working, I was headed to bed.

I flipped the front door light on for her.

“Why did you do that,” she asked.

“So you won’t forget to let the dog in,” I claimed.

She wouldn’t have forgot as it took about 30 seconds for the real dog to start furiously barking at the fake dog.

I laid in bed with anticipation as I heard the door open.

“Greg, you jerk!”

Victim number three.

“You’re going to scare your girls to death with that thing,” she scolded me when she came to bed.

“No Kim, I’ll only scare one girl and she deserves it.”

I had no idea how right I was. My oldest daughter, Clara had already seen it and disregarded it immediately. She knows me too well.

As indicated in Galatians, we will reap what we sow. And my youngest, Evelyn, is arguably a bigger prankster and far more clever than her father.

Her first prank was when she was five or six. She had taken one of her dolls with long blond hair and set it against her pillow. She added a handful of stuffed animals and pulled up the covers, while hiding in the closet.

I walked in to wake her up for school and about half a second before I shook the doll’s shoulder, I heard the feverish giggling behind me.

She got me.

Last Christmas, she pulled another doozy, taking an old Amazon box and placing a big rock inside of it before taping it up and placing it on the front doorstep.

Her brother fell for that one too. Nothing more humiliating for a 15-year-old than getting pranked by his 9-year-old sister.

So the next morning, while we are seated at the breakfast table, Evee got up to get a fork.

“Hey Evee, while you’re up, let Ella in,” I said innocently. “I think she’s at the front door.”

“Okay dad,” she replied.

After she opened the door, she stood there for a good second or two.

“Daaaaaaaad!”

She sat back down, with a smile on her face, appreciating she got got, as any good prankster would.

“When I saw that, I almost cried,” she said. “I thought it actually was Ella.”

Victim number four.

I’m sure someday when I’m gone, those pranks and jokes will be retold again by children.

Hopefully, it’s just not to their therapist.

Gregory Orear is the Editor of the Lincoln County Journal, Savannah Reporter, Elsberry Democrat and Troy Free Press. If you’d like to hear another story a prank that resulted in whip cream up his future-wife’s nose, send him an email to gorear@cherryroad.com.