In Cars

An important part of many a young man's life is getting his first car. It's a early step toward independence and responsibility. All at once he can both go somewhere his parents don't feel up to going and run up town at eleven at night to get a gallon of milk for his mother. The 'first cars' of our little group caused quiet a stir and spawned a few interesting stories. My first car was a 66 mustang. It has a lot of stories behind it, but I'm going to save them for later. For now I think it will be enough to share some of what happened with the other guy's rides.

Jesse's first car was a little truck that his Dad had given him. I don't remember what make or model it was, but it was small and primer gray and somehow it seemed to suit Jesse. It was as if that truck was made for him. By the time Jesse had gotten it I had wrecked my car, so while my mustang was awaiting repair we cruised around in Jesse's truck.

I do have to mention another ride that Jesse got later on. After his truck he got a Mustang of his own. With it he picked up a number of bizarre ticks that used to drive me crazy. For one thing every time we came to a stop light he would take it out of gear and wiggle the shifter back and forth until the light went green. He would also thump the gauges like some world war one fighter pilot in the movies. One day he thumped the oil pressure gauge and said:

“Looks like my oil temperature is getting a little high...”

That was all I could take.

“Three things Jesse! One: it's oil pressure you moron, not oil temperature! Two: anywhere in that line that is between the low mark and the high mark is normal! That's why it's labeled normal! Three: if you thump another gauge today I'm going to lay you out!”

It may seem that I went a little over the top, but you weren't there. I assure you that you couldn't have taken it as well as I did. I had grown up with him and was used to it. Anyway, the following stories don't touch his Mustang, but I had to mention it.

It was a blast going places with Jesse. When he was behind the wheel he was a different guy. He had a certain charm about him that you would never see when he wasn't in his ride. There was a confidence that was hard to understand or explain, but it was easy to see. I can't even describe it. Fortunately I can think of an example.

One day while behind the wheel of this tiny primer gray truck he was trying to get up a steep hill in Aiken. The old girl just didn't feel like climbing up and so was moving at around three miles an hour. A car full of beautiful young girls pulled up beside Jesse just as the truck had come to a stand still refusing to go any higher. Jesse looked over at the young women, smiled and yelled out to them “Too much power baby! Too much power!” as he revved the engine and the truck refused to move. You can't buy confidence like that! Needless to say the girls only laughed and drove away. Still, it was a beautiful thing to see a young man so full of self assurance, even if it was misplaced.

At the time Jesse and I went almost everywhere together. In fact we even started a little recycling business. The truck could haul loads of metal and we liked to ride so it seemed like the perfect idea. We would drive around town looking for scrap metal and once we had a load we would head out to Orangeburg to cash it all in. It was a lot of work and we didn't make much money, but it seemed better than working a real job.

We were out doing this one winter and we decided to ride down the old train tracks from Williston out to White Pond. Now, this may seem like a crazy thing to do, but two points should clear it up for you. One, we were crazy. Two, the tracks had been torn up years ago. The “old train tacks” was actually the “old dirt road” that nobody ever used. We just decided to ride down them and see where it took us.

It turned out to be far less interesting than we thought it might. It was just a long strait dirt road that was down in a valley between two hills most of the way. After we made it to White Pond we decided to head home. Jesse dropped me off and then headed out to his house. A few minutes later I got a phone call.

“Hey bro.” Jesse said as I picked up the phone.

“Hey, what's up?” I asked.

“We were seen by the police.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we were driving down the train tracks.”

“So. Is that illegal?”

“I don't know, maybe, but that's not why they are looking for us.”

Here I felt a sinking feeling. When talking about the police you rarely want to hear the phrase “looking for us”. Still, I was always an optimist.

“Why are they looking for us?”

“They think we are wanted criminals!”

“What?!?!?”

“Well, I mean, they think that the truck was being driven by someone who is avoiding the police and moving from town to town in hiding.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I heard it on Mom's scanner!”

Mrs. Dicks was with the EMS service in town at the time and so she often had a police scanner tuned in to what was going on.

“Well what do they know?”

“They know the color of the truck and their searching all over town for us!”

“No problem! We just lay low until tomorrow. They are sure to think we've moved on by then.”

Jesse agreed and we stayed in our hideouts all the rest of the day. Fortunately nothing more came of that, but it wasn't the little gray truck's last run in with the police. I will here ask that any Williston or Barnwell police officer that reads this will laugh at it and then forget it. I don't know what the statute of limitations is on this, but it has to be a misdemeanor and it was over fifteen years ago.

We had ridden up to the courthouse in Barnwell together. Jesse had to go in to check on something. I don't even remember what it was about, but I had decided to come along. The parking spaces at the court house had to date back to the nineteen twenties, either that or they were supposed to be motorcycle parking spaces. Whatever the cause they were not wide enough for a real car, even a car as small as Jesse's truck.

The police themselves didn't seem to have a problem using these spaces, but then they used them all the time and usually only had to open one door when they were at the courthouse. Jesse never parked in these spaces and we needed enough clearance on each side to open both doors. As we were pulling in Jesse asked me for guidance. It was hard to see and he was pulling between two cars. One off them was a cop car.

“Am I good?” He asked as we crept forward.

“You're good.” I replied.

We moved a few more inches.

“Am I good?”

“You're good.”

Inches.

“Am I good?”

“You're good.”

Etc.

At some point my mind began to wonder and I just kept repeating the phrase “You're good.” again and again. Suddenly we heard the sound of metal scraping metal and I actually took a moment to look out of the window.

“You're not good.....”

“What?!?!?”

“You just seriously scratched a cop car.”

We backed up and drove home. Jesse decided he could take care of whatever it that he was there for later. Once we had gotten to Jesse's house we started thinking it over. We felt guilty about not letting the cop know what we had done and were discussing going back and turning ourselves in. Mrs. Dicks sat there listening to us quietly and then chimed in.

“I'm very proud of you boys for wanting to the right thing. You did something you shouldn't have and have gotten away with. Now you want to go back and set things right. That's wonderful. It's also very stupid! You are now guilty of a hit and run. Learn your lesson, don't do it again and shut up about it!”

We considered the wisdom of this course of action and let it drop. I will say this: it was the last time either of us ever hit a cop car without turning ourselves in. So, in a very real way we did learn our lesson.

Jesse often did get the worst end of the stick when we were cruising around. Again, I have an excellent example. Joshua and Jesse and several other members of the old crew were out riding. I don't remember where they were going or why, but fortunately that doesn't have much to do with it. The point is that Josh needed a rest stop and the driver (I think it was Sam) didn't want to take one.

“We got to stop.” Josh asserted.

“We're not going to.”

“I have to pee.”

“Can't you pee out of the window?”

Here it is important to note a couple of things. Josh never said he couldn't do anything, so asking him “can't you whatever” was sure way to get him to do it. It's also important to know that it was hot that night, so everyone had their windows rolled down. (I know what you're thing and the answer is 'Yes, that is what happened'.)

“Of course I can pee out of the window!”

“Well then go ahead!”

So, he did. At fifty five miles an hour Josh started peeing out of the window. Suddenly Jesse began to yell and sputter.

“Stop! You're peeing in my face!” He screamed at the top of his lungs as he waved his arms around trying fend off the assault flying into his window.

“I can't stop! Roll up your window!”

Here Jesse sputtered a few things which may have been something along the lines of “I can't roll up the window with you peeing in my face!”, but we'll never know. He didn't say anything anyone understood, but the window didn't get rolled up. It was rather too bad all around, because after that they had to make a rest stop to clean Jesse up so Josh had peed out of the window for nothing. It was just one of life's little ironies.

So far this has all been focused on Jesse. I didn't intend for it to be, but he was very entertaining behind the wheel. To close I'm going to use Sam and my subject and his Mustang. (Yes, we all had Mustangs: Mine was red, Jesse's was black and Sam's was white.)

Sam was and is and probably always will be a “I can do that better than you!” kinda guy. It's all in good fun and he doesn't mean anything by it, but he loves the thrill of competition and nothing fires him up like a head to head bout. He used to get people driving through the neighborhood to race their cars against my motorcycle. The results were almost always the same: “I almost had 'em!”

After Sam got his Mustang he really did have them. He could blow most vehicles off the road. William Owens had gotten a 240 SX and Sam wanted to race him. Now, ordinarily that Mustang would have passed that 240 SX with no problems. Sam was a good driver and had the better machine, but William had a few tricks up his sleeve.

They decided to race from where they were through Williston down to Church Street Station. The Station was a place where most of the teenagers hung out at the time. Josh needed a ride and it was decided that he would ride with William. They got in their vehicles, cranked them up and were ready to start. Both of them sprang away from the line.

William was faster off the mark and got in front of Sam. He weaved down the road eating up both lanes and not letting Sam get around him. He managed to keep Sam behind him all the way to the red light down town. Josh decided to speak to William about his chances.

“You're never going to beat him on this straight away. The curves in the road were all the advantage you had.”

“Just wait.”

“We've got close to a mile to go on a perfectly strait road. That mustang is going to blow us away on the straight away!”

“Just wait.”

“There's no way we can beat him. Sam knew that before we started.”

“Just wait.”

So, wait they did. They light turned green and William slowly rolled out into the intersection. He sat there quietly as Sam honked his horn almost none stop. The light turned yellow and William sat there. Sam leaned on the horn as hard as he could. The light turned red and William slowly made his left hand turn and drove away.

Sam's mighty mustang had been beaten by a red light. I always thought that it was funny that Sam had no problem racing, which is illegal, but wouldn't run that red light in order to win. That's another funny thing about Sam though. He didn't particularly care about legality, but he did care about dangerous.

My children are growing up every day. It won't be long and my generation's sons are all going to be getting their first cars. When I think about what they are going to experience it makes me smile. I can't help but wonder what machine my oldest boy is going to want and what he's going to do with it. The cycle of life moves very fast. It seems only yesterday that I got my first car and before too much longer my firstborn will have his. Time truly does fly and life is very short, but it's also very wonderful. I thank God for all the moments I've had in the Sun.

Remaining Calm

It's an important ability to have, remaining calm I mean. Many times in life potential disasters can be averted if the people involved keep a cool head and act rationally. Although there weren't a lot of true disasters looming over my childhood there were mild unpleasantnesses around every corner. At times we managed to avoid them just by thinking and acting quickly. I am now going to unfold three brief tales where I extol the virtue of keeping your head.

The first tale opens in a boat in a pond in a yard in a wood in Moncks Corner in South Carolina in the United States of America. My brother and I were visiting our grandmother with our parents. Most of the time when we came down to visit, which was very often, some of my cousins would come over to play with us. Usually it was Jennifer, Christie and Robby that showed up.

We five were very regular companions. Of all our kin, Joshua and I saw them the most. When we weren't heading down for a weekend in Moncks Corner they were usually coming up for a visit in Williston. In spite of the fact that we lived roughly a hundred miles apart, we got to see each other basically every other weekend. Much is the time we spent together and many are the tales we lived through.

That day we had gotten out on the pond early. My uncles had a little aluminum john boat that we were allowed to use whenever we wanted. We could row around and fish and do pretty much whatever else we could think of. Christie, Jennifer and I had been rowing for an hour or so when the girls decided they wanted to go inside for a moment. They intended to come right back to the boat so I didn't want to row all the way back to our normal landing spot.

I decided that I would let them disembark on a small cliff overlooking the pond. It was about a foot out of the water and seemed to me to be a perfect spot to get to shore. I rowed up until I was almost touching it, then I stood up and put the tip of my paddle on the shore. As I turned around to help one of them up I explained what I wanted them to do.

“OK. All you need to do is to step out of the boat onto the shore. I'll hold your hand so you won't fall. Whatever you do don't jump. If you do you will kick the boat away from the shore. You understand?”

They nodded and affirmed that they did, in fact, understand me completely. I helped Jennifer to her feet. She stepped quickly to the front of the boat and stepped out onto the shore without batting an eye. I then helped Christie to her feet. She stepped quickly to the front of the boat and paused for a moment. Then she bent her knees quickly and jumped to the shore.

The result was simple and immediate. The boat shot away from the shore like a rocket. She had forgotten that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. The action of her getting to shore almost caused the reaction of me falling into the pond. However, as I said at the beginning, these tales are all about keeping your cool.

I only had a split second to react after she jumped. I was leaning out of the boat toward the shore in order to make sure that she didn't fall into the pond. Because of that fact most of my body was actually hanging out over the water. I had been supported by my feet in the boat and by the paddle pushed down on the shore. The moment she jumped, my feet were pulled from under me and the paddle jerked off the shore.

I did the only thing I could at that moment. I jammed the paddle down into the water as hard as I could. Lady luck was watching me carefully that afternoon, it would seem. The paddle went almost completely under the water, but struck mud at the last instant. About three inches of the handle were above the water line.

So there I was stretched out at my full length, hovering above the water. The very tips of my toes were still clinging to the boat. My chest was held aloft by one hand that was holding onto a paddle that was stuck in mud in the bottom of the pond. Fortunately my hand was right in the center of my chest. Had it been off to one side or the other I would have been off balance and would have toppled into the water. I hung there for a moment, quickly jerking the paddle handle right and left to keep my balance.

“Pull me in!” I yelled.

“We can't, we're not strong enough,” Christie asserted.

“Well you're going to have to try!”

“How?”

“I don't know! Grab me!”

“We might fall in.”

“Might you?!?!?”

After a moment Jennifer and Christie decided that they should try something. They each grabbed me under the arm and began to pull. Again, luck was with me. My head was almost touching the shore so they could grab me with out leaning out too far. If I had been a little better balanced I could probably have gotten my left hand on shore by myself. Once they had me they began to pull.

“Pick me up higher.” I said as I saw the shore creeping slowly toward my face.

“We can't! We're not strong enough.”

She was right. Try as they might they couldn't get my head up. Within a second I was plowing a trough through the dirt with my face. The moment I could support my weight with my head I slammed one of my hands on shore and did a push up. After that I was able to drag myself in and pull the boat up with my feet.

My face was covered in dirt, but I hadn't fallen into the pond. On the way back to the house I explained why stepping out of a boat was so much better than jumping out of a boat. It had been close and I had gotten a face full of dirt, but I hadn't fallen into the pond. The reason I didn't was a combination of luck and keeping a cool head.

The next tale opens years later. My cousin Tara was over visiting us along with Phillip Renew, who was a long time friend. The two of them had gone out into the woods with Joshua to play. I planned to follow them after I had taken care of a few things at the house. They had been gone for perhaps an half an hour when I headed out myself.

I walked out to our tree-house and stumbled upon an alarming sight. Tara had been tied to a pine tree and a bundle of kindling was burning at her feet. She was looking down at the blaze and slowly stepping it out as it crept to near her. I watched her for a moment or so and then decided to speak.

“I everything alright?” I asked, looking down at the fire.

“Oh yes, it's fine,” she replied while stepping on a burning bit of pine straw.

“What's going on?”

“Oh, Josh and Phillip decided to burn me at the stake.”

“I see... Any reason why?”

“It's a game we're playing.”

“I see... Where are they?”

“I don't know...” she said while putting out a small pine branch. “They wandered off into the woods after they started the fire...”

“Ah... Would you like me to put out the fire?”

“No, no. I think I have it under control.”

“I see... Would you like me to wait with you until they come back?”

“Not at all. Thank you, but I'm certain they'll be along any minute. Don't let me keep you.”

At this point I wasn't sure what to say. I just stood there for a moment while she ignored me and concentrated on keeping the fire at bay. I decided that the best course of action would be to go look for the boys in the woods. We must have passed each other at some point, but they did get back in time to put out the fire. So, Tara had kept a cool head and managed to get out of what some would consider a tricky situation. She could have stood there screaming and fought the ropes to no avail, but she remained calm and simply refused to be taken advantage of by the flames. There's a lesson there for us all, I think.

The next story took place later that same day. After I had gone to make sure that Tara hadn't been roasted alive, I went on my way. Tara and the boys decided to stay at the tree house, however. Josh and Phillip got the brilliant idea to build a fire inside an old metal tank. I'm not sure where the tank came from or what it was for, but we had dragged it out to the tree house just in case we needed it. That day Phillip and Joshua decided that it was the perfect place to build a fire.

Now, why they thought it would be good to build a fire in it is a matter of speculation. I can only suppose that they thought it would be cool to have a tank full of fire. However, this tank presented several challenges. First, it had only one small opening, which meant it had to be loaded with fuel through a two-inch hole. Second, whatever instrument you decided to light the fire with had to pass through that two-inch hole. Third, once the fire was lit, both the exhaust and oxygen had to pass through that same two-inch hole. All in all, the two-inch hole was the real problem.

The sum of those facts was simply this: they couldn't get the fire started. They had loaded the tank with pine straw and sticks, but nothing would light it. They dropped burning pine straw into it by the handfuls only to see it go out. After a few moments they got frustrated and decided to take things to the next level. Josh got a can of spray paint and and blasted very flammable paint into the tank. Still nothing... So they got a can of starter fluid (for those of you who don't know, starter fluid is much more flammable than gasoline) and sprayed a liberal amount of ether (starter fluid is also called ether) down into the hole. Still nothing...

That sat there frustrated for a few moments, trying to decide what to do. What they didn't know was that every second they waited, air was creeping into the tank. The fire wasn't refusing to start because of a lack of fuel, but because of a lack of oxygen. That deficiency was rectifying itself as they sat there thinking. At last Phillip got a brilliant idea. He lit a small pine stick and put his face up to the hole. He was going to take a look in the tank and see what was going on. With his eye lined up with the opening he jammed his burning twig into the darkness.

The results were amazing to see, at least that's what I've been told. The tank lit up like a rocket motor. It shot flame out several feet, which was more than enough to engulf Phillip's head in crimson flame. His hair was blown back and singed into an interesting bouffant, while at the same time his eye brows and eye lashes were instantly burned away to nothing. His eyes had been open when the metal dragon sparked to life, so he was temporarily blinded. That is why, when he jumped up and shot away from the tank, running at full speed, he didn't see the pine tree in front of him. He rammed his head into it with so much force that it knocked him down and almost out.

Now, at this moment many people might have freaked out. Joshua didn't. He helped Phillip up as quickly as he could and made a bee line for the house. Within a minute or so they had Phillip's head in the sink, extinguishing any secondary burning. He looked funny when all was said and done. He had no eye brows/lashes at all, and his hair-do would have made Flock of Seagulls (an eighties band) proud. His face was also very red. Almost as red as a ripe tomato, but at least all his skin was still there. All things considered he was no worse for the wear.

I don't think his mother agreed at the time. Phillip was never again allowed to come over to the house unless his old brother Stephen came along. I thought that Josh had acted very well under the circumstances. Still, I understand where she was coming from. No one likes to have their son's head caught on fire, I suppose.

The moral of all of this is simple: keep your head. You can't control what life throws at you, but you can control what you throw back. Things aren't usually as bad as they appear at first glance, so keep your head up and keep your nerve. That's what I've always tried to do and, so far, it's served me well. Nothing has ever been made better by people running around in a panic screaming “What are we going to do!” Anyways, it's something to think about...

Dangerous Games

If you have read much of what I've written about my childhood, then you already know that I didn't always take the time to think about what I was doing. Many times I only considered whether or not it would be fun. If it seemed like an interesting idea, I didn't stop to consider any of the other ramifications. This can certainly be excused in one's youth, but one is expected to mature and begin to think about what one is doing from a more responsible point of view. I certainly hadn't started to think that way in my late teens, which is when these stories take place. All I can say in my defense is that I know many men who don't think responsibly now. As the old saying goes, “Better late than never.”

Once again these stories are laid out in order of humor, not chronologically. The first story is about Brandyn and myself. I guess it really begins with the fact that I always wanted to learn to fence. That is to say, I always wanted to learn to fight with swords. I also wanted to learn all the other martial arts, from hand to hand combat to archery to shooting to mounted combat, but all those desires have their own stories, and this tale doesn't concern them.

Here I will take the time to point out that I am a self-teacher. When I want to learn how to do something, I consider how it is that people first learned about it and pursue the same course. My brother and I learned to juggle one afternoon simply by thinking about how jugglers looked when they were juggling. In a few hours he and I were standing across the lawn juggling five balls between us (the balls where really unripe figs, but why split hairs). Most of what I know how to do, I've gone out and learned on my own. So, when I wanted to know how to fence, I thought the best course of action was to start fencing.

Joshua and I had gotten some long metal rods from somewhere. I believe they had been part of some big flower arrangement at some time. I can't remember exactly where they were from, but they were round and green, and at the time, I associated them with flower arrangements. The rods had been lying around at my house for some time. We had saved them hoping to find a use for them at some point. The evening finally came when I did find a use for them.

Brandyn was over at the house and we were walking and talking. We had run out of things to do and we were just wandering around the yard. We finally wandered right up on the rods.

“These give me an idea,” I said as I picked one up.

“What's that?” Brandyn asked.

“They are about the size and shape of fencing foils.”

“They're a little short.”

“That's true, and they don't have handles, but I think they would do.”

“For what?”

“For fencing.”

“Alright, let's do it.”

That is the summation of the conversation, as it were. We each grabbed a rod and headed for the front yard. As we stood face-to-face and saluted each other with our make-shift foils, neither of us took the time to consider what could happen. There was one major difference between our rods and real fencing foils: the little button at the end of the blade. That button keeps you from stabbing each other and prevents people from losing eyes. We also didn't take the time to consider the fact that, when most people fence, they wear armor and a face mask.

As soon as we had saluted, the bout began. At first I am sure it would have been wonderful to see. Each of us was very dextrous and lighting fast at that age. For minutes you could have heard the clang of steel on steel, or watched with excitement each thrust and perry. We had seen a lot of movies and, considering the fact that we had never done anything like it before, we did fairly well. However, at last, like so many of our games, it ended in pain.

Brandyn had made a lunge for me. I parried it, but I was in a bad position when I did so. His face was at about the height of my chest, because he had stepped so far forward. When I blocked his attack my foil rolled around his. The very tip of my rod caught him in the face. It made a quick semi-circle and slashed him right under his eye.

“Ahhh!” he screamed as he dropped his weapon.

“Bro, are you OK?!?”

“Yes, but only just!”

I took a look at his face. I had cut him clean, and thankfully it wasn't deep. As we went in for him to wash up, we took the time to consider what would have happened had my rod gone an inch or so higher. It gave me the chills to think about how close I had come to jamming Brandyn's eye out (I know that those of you who have read some of my other tales may be thinking that I had it out for other people's eyes, but that is not the case). That was the end of that particular game. I am happy to say that it also brought playing with long pointed objects to an end. That had been too close. It was truly a life lesson and I took the opportunity to learn from it. I hadn't gained the lesson I was looking for, but once again my actions had taught me something.

The next few stories don't have nearly so much moral to them. I'm not sure there was really much to learn, or if there was, I haven't learned it yet. They are very funny however, and that alone makes them worth preserving. I suppose one could learn a little something from them. If I had to give these stories a moral, it would be something like this: “Don't do things that make you look stupid for fun. If you do, then one of your friends may remember it to his deathbed and tell everyone you ever know about it, right down to your grandchildren.” It's rather a long moral, and I'm not sure Aesop would approve, but it's the best I can do.

These three short tales revolve around something called the “helicopter.” Now, I feel certain that most of you don't know what that is, so I'll take a moment to explain. The “helicopter” is a way of forcing yourself to hyperventilate and thereby pass out. You take ten deep breaths and hold the tenth one as hard as you can. Then one of your friends grabs you and squeezes your ribcage as hard as he can for a few seconds. This will force the pressure up in your lungs, causing more oxygen to dissolve into your bloodstream. At least that was the explanation I was given. The results I can attest to first hand: you pass out.

Why would anyone want to do that? At the moment that seems like a good question, even to me. However, when I was younger the answer was very simple: people do crazy things when they ride the helicopter. I was willing to do it and let everyone laugh at me so that I, in turn, could laugh at them. It may not seem to be a good reason to you, but if it doesn't then you're not thinking like a teenage boy.

I was probably the least interesting of all our old crew. With the exception of Jonathan, I suppose. He would never take the ride. I think thoughts of college and brain damage gave him pause. In any event, my crazy was always just the same. No matter how many times I did it the same thing happened...

“Help me!.... Help me!!.... Help Me!!!... HELP ME!!!!”

You see, I thought was being dragged to my death by some horrible monster. At least that's my theory. I could never remember why I was screaming “Help me!” when I woke up. As soon as I was conscious I would bust out laughing at everyone laughing at me. The reason I believe I must have thought I was being attacked by a monster is because of the only helicopter memory I have. I remember thinking something had bitten me on top of the head and was dragging me around. The helicopter makes your head tingle and I'm sure that was my mind's explanation as to why my head felt funny.

The funniest thing that ever happened with me was in my own bedroom. I had taken the ride and woke up to find Jonathan grabbing me by the back of my head and slamming his hand over my mouth. As soon as he realized I was already conscious, he explained that I had been yelling. At that moment there was a knock on the door.

“Is everything OK?” Mom asked as she look in on the crowd packed in my room.

“Yeah, Mom, everything's fine,” I said, still reeling with dizziness.

“I thought I heard screaming.”

“Oh yeah, we're just playing a game.”

“Yeah, a game! Just a game we were playing. We were just fooling around,” said the boys.

Mom looked at me for a moment and then slowly closed the door. I'm sure she had no idea what we were doing, but I'm also sure she knew it was something strange. Shortly after that happened I gave up riding the helicopter. It got old seeing me scream “Help me!” every single time. For a while the guys hoped I would do something else, but I never did.

Jesse was a different story. Some of you may remember him from my earlier tales: if not I would suggest reading “The Terrorizing of Jesse Dicks” to get acquainted with him. Jesse was hard to knock out. Almost every time he tried to ride he failed. The key with the helicopter is holding your breath until you actually pass out. Jesse almost never managed to do that. Instead he would hold it until he almost passed out and then sit down on the floor and complain about his head feeling funny.

Not being one to give up, Jesse got in line for the ride with the rest of us one night. Up to that point he had never been knocked out. The fun with watching Jesse do it was hearing him complain when he failed. He took ten deep breaths. He held the last one as Josh picked him up from behind and squeezed his ribs as hard as he could. Josh held him up for a reasonable amount of time, but Jesse didn't black out. So, Josh set him down on the floor. When his feet touched the floor Jesse let his breath go and stood there.

Normally at this point Jesse would sit down and start complaining. This time, however, he just stood there.

“Jesse, are you all right, bro?” my brother asked, looking Jesse in the face.

Jesse nodded slowly in reply.

“You're sure you're OK?”

Jesse didn't answer, he just started to walk slowly around the room. With each step he took, he crouched a bit lower, until he was walking along slowly bent over at half height. Now, this didn't seem normal, and we all started calling his name and asking him if he was alright. He didn't answer, he just took one crouching step after another. When he ended up back where he had started, he reached his arms out and put them around my brother's waist. He pulled Josh right up to his crouching form.

“Whoa! You alright there, bro?!” Josh asked, trying to pull away.

That seemed to wake Jesse up. I actually saw the light of understanding flicker on in his eyes. He looked at all of us staring at him and then looked Josh right in the jeans. As soon as he realized what he was doing he jerked back and stood up.

“What did I do?!?” he yelled.

In reply we burst out laughing. After a few moments we were actually able to tell him what he had done, while I reenacted it with tears streaming down my face.

It had been hard to get Jesse there, but it was worth it once he was. Brandyn, on the other hand, was easy to knock out and consistently funny. However, since his story has to go up against Jesse's, I'm going to relate his best one.

Brandyn almost always passed out. Everyone would fail once in a while. It took a great deal of concentration and determination not to breathe out before you passed out, but Brandyn was very good at it. He took his breaths and held on tight. Josh grabbed him and tried to squeeze the consciousness right out of him. Brandyn didn't let go of his breath and Josh finally had to set him down.

“You alright?” Josh asked while helping hold Brandyn up.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Brandyn was still swaying side to side, but Josh figured he had to be OK and probably just needed a moment. He let Brandyn's arm go and stepped back. Brandyn stood there swaying for a moment and then collapsed like a sack of potatoes. He fell straight back before any of us could catch him. When his head slammed into the floor it woke him up. Since he wasn't sure how he had gotten laid out on the floor, he went to get up as fast as he could.

The first step in the process, of course, is to sit up. He sat up with every ounce of force in his body. In fact his head came flying up off the floor at roughly the speed of sound. That turned out to be unfortunate because, as he was still dizzy, of course, he swayed. The result was that he slammed his head into the corner of my very solid wooden headboard just as hard as he could. He sat there for a moment with his eyes spinning, and then dropped his head back on the floor at full force. He had hit himself in the head so hard that it had knocked him out.

However, when his head slapped the floor for the second time, it again woke him up. He moaned for a moment before he looked up at us with daggers in his eyes.

“OK! Which one of you punched me in the head? I saw you do it!!”

That was enough for us. We realized that Brandyn was OK and all laughed until we were about to cry. Finally we were able to tell him the story without laughing until we couldn't talk any more. Brandyn was a good sport and joined in the laughter, even with the giant knot on his head.

I think most young men play one kind of dangerous game or another. I am glad to say that none of ours left any permanent damage, except for scars that make interesting conversation pieces. We still play games, but they are now mainly of the video variety. I am older and, I hope, wiser. Still, it makes me laugh to think back on the things we did. I hope you were able to share that laughter with me.

Fishing with Sam

Sam, Josh and I often went fishing during the summer. In fact we went fishing in the spring, summer and fall. There were even occasional fishing trips in the winter when the weather was nice. It wasn't that we were great fishermen or that we were even particularly fond of fishing. It was simply the fact that fishing was something to do and it was as good a reason as any to get out and go somewhere. Whenever possible we combined a bit of adventure into our fishing trips. We would often sneak out onto Mr. Folk's property and fish down by the spill way out in his woods. The fishing was good and it was our own little private fishing hole.

We used whatever tackle we could lay our hands on. Sometimes we used bamboo poles with worms we had dug up ourselves. At other times we each had a rod and reel with a number of lures. We were never very good about putting our tackle up when we were done with it, so what we had to fish with changed with every trip. Coupled with that was the fact that our fishing trips were always a little spontaneous. They were just something we used to fill up our free time. When the mood struck us we grabbed whatever gear we could find and headed out.

Many of our trips ended at Williston Pond. That is to say the pond that is in Williston park, I'm not sure what it's name is even today. A number of memorable things happened on the shore of that little body of water. With all the fishing that we did there I myself only caught one memorable fish and that was on a day when I wasn't fishing. The Tuttle family (my Mom's side) was having a get together at the park. I was wondering around on the edge of the pond and picked a soda can up out of the water. I poured all the water out of it and noticed that something alive was in it. My cousin Louis ripped the can open and found a catfish inside. It had swum in and eaten until it was too big to get out again. We saved it and set it free. That catfish was the best catch I ever had at that pond...

Still, that didn't stop us from fishing there all the time. Sam would often get frustrated by our lack of “bites”. There were a number of huge carp that would swim around the pond constantly just below the surface. I think they loved to mock all the fisherman that wasted time by coming down to the pond. I don't know how many times I've watched Sam dangling something right in front of one and screaming at them to bite it. I have actually watched him bounce bait off of their mouths for minutes at the time. No matter what we tried they never would bite. Over the years we had tried every bait we could think of.

Finally Sam got an idea. We were heading down to the pond and he had an old rod and reel in his hand. As we walked he explained:

“You see what I've got on the line?” He asked, holding the end of the line up for me to see.

“A weight.” I answered.

“Yep! You know why?”

“No... They aren't going to bite that....”

“No, they won't. They won't bite anything!”

“Ahh...”

“Now you understand?”

“Nope...”

“I am going to bash one's brains out!”

“What?!?!”

“I am going to sling the rod like a whip and then let the reel go so it will throw the weight.”

“I don't think that will work...”

“Well, you'll see when we get there!”

As soon as we arrived at the pond Sam put his idea into practice. I have to admit that it did much better than I thought it would. He would swing the rod and let the reel go and the weight would shoot down into the pond. I still wasn't convinced that it would do enough damage to hurt the fish, but I have to admit that it looked impressive.

Sam was getting better and better with his aim, but had run into a problem. The reel started to stick. This was very frustrating because a perfectly good cast would get stopped short and cause the weight to fly in some unwanted direction. Now, Sam should have taken some time to consider the fact that a heavy fishing weight flying in an unwanted direction was a bad thing. However, one of Sam's personality traits at that age was never to consider any facts at any time for any reason. He simply yelled at the reel for sticking and got ready to try again.

This is why he didn't think about the fact that it would be dangerous to cast standing right behind someone. Josh was crouched down on the shore looking at this and that. Sam had been trailing this carp trying to hit it with cast after cast. Finally he had gotten into a position where he was going to cast right over Josh's head. He pulled the rod back and cracked it like a whip. The weight shot away like a bullet!

Sadly this was one of the times the reel decided to stick. The result was that the weight flew low and shot right across the top of Josh's head. It made a trail trough his hair and the scalp it was attached to. That weight had cut him almost to the skull. Josh slapped his hand on his head and blood began pouring between his fingers.

We three were all alone at the pond and weren't sure what to do. Fortunately there was a dentist's office right in the park, so we made strait for it. They were actually able to both anesthetize and stitch the wound. My parents were thankful for their help and satisfied with the result. Needless to say that was the end of “fish striking” or whatever you want to call that method.

However, Sam was never a man to give up easily. It was only a short while before he came up with another plan. Once again we were down at the Williston pond and Sam was watching the carp swim around laughing ay him. After a few minutes he got an idea. He picked up a long stick and headed down to the edge of the pond.

“I'm going to spear one!” He said on his way to the shore.

“I don't think that's going to work.” I replied.

“It will. I've seen people do it.”

“You haven't seen them do it with an old pine tree limb.”

“No, but that doesn't matter. The point is that you can spear them.”

“Not with that you can't.”

“You'll see!”

Needless to say, I didn't expect to see anything of the kind. I didn't imagine for a moment that he would actually be able to drive an old pine stick into a swimming carp. In fact I thought that it was so ludicrous that I didn't even bother to stand there and watch. I began to wonder around the circumference of the pond watching the fish swim by. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sam jamming the stick down into the water again and again. I thought he was insane, but I admired his resolve.

I had wandered over to the opposite side of the shore when Sam suddenly had a change in luck. I heard him scream my name at the top of his lungs and looked up to see something I never could have anticipated. There was Sam kneeling down with his stick jammed down in the water. He had chosen a section of the shore where there was a two foot drop separating earth from water. Squeezed between Sam's stick and the shore was a giant carp.

It seems that Sam had tried to spear the poor thing, but that he had missed. He jammed the stick down into the mud instead. In a flash he realized that the carp was between the stick and the shore, so he jerked the stick back in order to throw the fish out of the water. I believe it would have worked if it hadn't been for that two foot drop. In stead what Sam did was get the fish caught between his stick and the ground. I gathered all this in a moment while looking at him across the pond.

“Jeremy!” He creamed again.

“I'm coming!” I replied as I began to run full speed around the shore.

“I need your knife!”

“I'm coming!!”

“Hurry! It's going to get away!”

“I'm coming!!!”

“I need your knife to kill it!”

“I'm coming!!!!”

I was running as fast as I could, but the carp was making a steady break for it. I suppose the valiant fish had a love for life, because it certainly fought for it. It had been squirming back and forth with all it's strength from the moment it realized it was caught. Very slowly it was getting away. Finally Sam decided that he couldn't wait any longer for me. The fish was too close to freedom. I had gotten within twenty feet of Sam and I saw him reach down to the carp with his bear hand.

“Ahhhh!!!!” He screamed as he jerked back and let the carp fall in the water.

“It bit me!”

In deed it had. In a last ditch effort to save his fish Sam had reached valiantly into the carps mouth. In a last ditch effort to save it's own life it had bitten Sam as hard as it could. In this particular contest between man and beast the brave little fish was the winner. Sam stared at the pond in disbelief for a minute and then looked at his injured hand. After a moment he decided where the fault for all this calamity lay.

“Where were you!” He yelled at me.

“I was on the other side of the pond! I ran as fast as I could!”

“Why didn't you stay close? I told you I was going to get one!”

“I didn't think you could!”

“Well I did!”

“I know that now!”

“Why didn't you leave your knife with me!”

“You didn't ask for it!”

After this yelling match was over we decided that it wasn't anybody's fault. It was just a lack of planning. Sam spent a good part of the rest of the day trying to do what he had done again. However, he never met with any success. That was the closest he ever got to catching one of those carp. There were many other fishing trips on many other beautiful days, but no other carp ever got pulled out of the water by our little group. It almost makes me want to head back down to the Williston pond and see if the carp are still there slowly swimming around and mocking whoever comes to try his luck.

Motorcycle Gang

I suppose I was twelve or thirteen the Christmas that Dad decided to get Joshua and I motorcycles. He had taken us to a few motorcycle shops and had us pick bikes we liked just in case he could buy them one day. We were told that he hoped to get them for us at some point, but that he wasn't sure when that would be. I am certain he was telling the truth at the moment. However, after we picked the motorcycles we wanted he decided he wanted to get them for us as soon as possible. So he worked tons of overtime to get them by Christmas.

He didn't want us to suspect that we were getting them, so we had Christmas just like we always did. We got our normal allotment of toys on Christmas eve down to the last present. When I got up on Christmas morning I couldn't have imagined that we had anything waiting for us, much less something that was worth all the rest of our Christmas presents together. I walked into the living room and saw two motorcycles parked under the Christmas tree. I was so surprised that I literally fell to the floor.

About an hour later Joshua and I were suited up and sitting outside on our bikes. Little did I know that it was the beginning of an almost countless number of adventures. I had just started learning how to change gears and get it going when Kevin Miller showed up. Kevin was a friend that we had known ever since we moved to Williston. We had both moved away from the original neighborhood, but occasionally got to see one another.

He was out and about on that fine Christmas morning and happened to see us out playing with our new bikes. I had just stopped and turned mine off when I looked up to see Kevin coming across the yard. He walked up with a broad smile on his face.

“Nice motorcycle!”

“Thanks, I just got it for Christmas.”

“Well, it's awesome! Have you popped a wheelie yet?”

“I don't know how...”

“Nothing to it! All you need to do is open the throttle and pop the clutch.”

“Cool!”

Here I have to provide a few details. First, my motorcycle outfit consisted of a sweat suit and a helmet. Second, the seat of the bike was plastic leather or pleather or whatever you want to call it. The result of these two facts was that I was sitting on a very slick surface. However, at the time I didn't consider this at all.

I took Kevin at his word. I cranked the motorcycle and completely opened the throttle. As soon as the engine was running at full RPMs (about a tenth of a second) I popped the clutch. What happened next was one of those things that leaves most people saying “No Way!”

The front wheel of the bike shot up as if I was about to do a wheelie, but it didn't stop there. It pulled up so far that I fell off. Well, I slid off. I guess it would be more accurate to say that the bike shot out from under me. I went from sitting on my motorcycle to standing on the ground in the blink of an eye.

All this prevented me from letting go of the throttle, so the back wheel continued to spin at full speed. It caused the bike to shoot up above my head. I had actually made it do a one hundred and eighty degree arc around my body. I stood there for a moment with my arms stretched up above my head holding the handle bars. I looked straight up into the seat I had just been sitting on and the decided I better get out from under it. I took two steps before the bike had hit the ground. It just laid there completely upside down.

Kevin stood there for a second with a stunned look on his face. Finally he spoke:

“You opened the throttle too much...”

Well, he was right. After a few more tries I perfected my wheelie and never had the bike shoot up above me again. However, I had another wheelie experience shortly after all this. A few days later I headed down the road to show Sam my bike. He was impressed.

“That's a nice bike!”

“Yea, you want to try it?”

“You know it!”

We decided that I would climb on the back and Sam and I would ride back up to my house.

“You know how to pop a wheelie?” I asked. I was my only trick so far and I wanted to share.

“Nope.”

“It's easy, just open the throttle and pop the clutch. Just be careful about how much you open the throttle!”

“No problem.”

Again, I have to pause for some description. Sam was actually living just down the hill from me at his grandmother's house. The hill continued down past her house. In fact her trailer was almost set on the ground on one end and on the other it was suspended roughly ten feet in the air, just to keep it level. We were sitting on the high side of this hill when he decided to start our trip home with a wheelie.

Sam started the bike, opened the throttle a little and popped the clutch. The front wheel pulled up and we began to ride along on the back tire. As soon as we were rolling forward, however, we took a slight right and started to slowly head down the hill.

“How do I steer?” Sam yelled above the sound of the motor.

“You can't until we get the front wheel back on the ground!”

“How do we do that?”

“Just lean forward!”

Normally leaning forward will put enough weight on the front wheel to push it back down to the ground. However, that didn't work this time. We had already started heading down the hill so that, from the point of view of gravity, the front wheel was almost strait up. Also, Sam's hands had slipped off the handle bars and he was holding as tight as he could to the top of the gas tank. We couldn't get enough leverage to get our weigh on the front of the motorcycle and drop the front tire.

The bike absolutely refused to put both it's wheels on the ground. We were screaming almost non-stop and were heading straight for a fence at the bottom of the hill. Just before the bike ran into it we started turning to the right. We actually drove around Sam's grandmother's trailer and started heading back up the hill. Once we had gotten to the top of the hill the bike made another right and dropped down on both wheels at almost the same point where our wheelie had started.

“How did you do that?!?” I asked as soon as the bike was stopped.

“I have no idea!” was Sam's honest answer.

Sam never popped another wheelie anywhere near as cool, either on purpose or by accident. None of my wheelies ever touched it either. However, Josh did pop one, quite by accident, that was even cooler and slightly more unbelievable than that one.

It happened years later. Sam had broken my motorcycle (that's another story...) and we had been trying to get it working again. We had been working on the engine for days, but hadn't gotten it started yet. Finally Sam decided that we needed to push start it to clear all the gunk out of the engine.

For those of you who don't know how you push start something I'll briefly explain. All you have to do is put the vehicle in neutral or hold the clutch in and start it rolling. Once the vehicle is moving at a good speed you pop the clutch. This forces the engine to roll over and the vehicle will start.

This was what Sam and Josh were doing with the motorcycle. They would haul it up to the top of the hill and get it rolling down and then pop the clutch. They had been at it for a while with no results. Sam was pushing while Josh rode the bike. Josh was lighter and Sam was stronger, so it was the best way to go about it.

At last something did happen. Sam was pushing away and yelled for Josh to pop the clutch. As he did so the bike shot up into a wheelie. Josh began to fly down the hill on one tire. Sam screamed for Josh to hit the brake. I'm sure that at the moment this seemed like a good idea even though it proved to be otherwise. Because Josh only slammed on the back brakes the front wheel was still free to move. Now, this may not seem like a problem since the front wheel was in the air, however, it turned out to be an issue anyway.

Here it's important to note that the hill he was rolling down was very steep. He was also rolling at a very high speed when he hit the brakes. The results were very remarkable. The front wheel came down with so much force that it cause the back tire to pop up. Since the front wheel was free to spin it caused the bike to kick up into a wheelie on the front tire. Sam screamed for Josh not to hit the break and he took the advice. He rolled all the way down the hill on the front wheel, screaming the entire way. At the very end the road went from paved to dirt. The dirt slowed the bike down and when it finally fell over Josh wasn't hurt at all.

There were many more wheelies, but none of them ever matched those. Little did Dad know what he had actually gotten when he bought that bike. It was a doorway to adventure for us. That was the one kind of door we could never walk past. There are many more stories about that old bike. I plan to share more of them with you time.

Trampoline Adventures

There are certain stories that I tell that I know people don't believe. You can see it in their eyes and their half smiles. I am sure those people's thoughts range from a polite "It's funny what tricks the memory can play." to a point blank "He's a liar!" However, unbelievable as they may seem they are true. In most cases there are a host of witnesses that saw it all happen that can support the facts. So, as I unfold this first story I ask you to have a little faith. It is a little outlandish, but truth is stranger than fiction.

My Nana wanted a sower curtain. That's really how it all began. The little trailer her and Papa lived in had shower doors rather than a curtain. Personally I always liked the doors better, but to each his own I suppose. I had wandered across the street to Nana and Papa's just as Papa had finished removing the old doors. I was six or seven years old at the time and I looked at everything from the "could this be a toy?" point of view. I decided that I could make use of the doors and I asked Papa if I could have all three. He told me that I could and a few minutes later they were all in my back yard.

These doors were plastic and aluminum. I am sure they weren't considered the highest quality doors in the world, but they were very light. I had no trouble in lifting them and could have pretended they were giant shields or some such mundane thing. However, I had other plans. They had a crossbar that you used as a handle to open and close them when they were shower doors. If you grabbed one by the handle and held it up over your head you could just imagine using one as a glider.

At least, I could imagine it. I have always been obsessed with flying. Anytime during my childhood when I thought I had something that might fly I would try it. Dad actually built us a hang glider years later, but that is another story. These doors struck me as ready made gliders. All we had to do was get them off the ground. That was the real trick, however. We didn't have a hill with a steep enough drop off to get any height and we certainly couldn't jump high enough to make flying possible.

Well, we couldn't jump that high unaided. After a few minutes consideration I decided that we could get high enough if we used the trampoline. To start with it was around three or four feet up and needless to say it was sheer drop from the edge to the ground. That alone was a good beginning. When that was added to the fact that I could bounce about six feet on it the trampoline became an obvious way to launch these gliders.

Jim, Joshua and I took the idea and began to put it into practice. We would bounce as high as we could while holding the edge of the “glider” down. Obviously, you couldn't bounce very well while trying to hold a glider up above your head. When we hit the high point of the bounce we would flip the shower door up and try our best to fly.

We now come to the point of the story that some of you may find hard to believe. After just a few tries we developed a technique. We could bounce as high as we could and throw the glider up and actually catch air and fly. Now, I admit that we didn't go far. We started our flights at maybe the ten foot mark and we glided slowly to the ground covering maybe fifteen feet of distance. At that point we ran into the chain link fence that ran around our back yard.

Mom and Dad had put the fence up so that Josh and I could play without Mom having to watch us every second. It was your standard five foot job chain link deal. They didn't feel like barbed wire around the top was necessary, but they might have been wrong. In any event, this was the obstacle that cut our flights short.

We were enjoying our brief flights, while at the same time lamenting the fact that we couldn't get those few extra feet when Marcus Stevenson happened to see what we were doing. Marcus was one of the older kids in the neighborhood. We was four years older that Jim and I. He was tall for his age and a knot of muscle wrapped around a few low diameter bones. He was light weight, but still very strong.

After watching us for a few moments he decided to speak:

“So, you guys aren't very good at that.” He said as he watched us.

“Well, we're doing what we can. We're flying anyway!” I replied.

“You ought to fly over the fence.”

“We can't.”

“I could.”

“Then do it.”

Marcus would try almost anything and he certainly didn't let challenges go by unanswered. After our little exchange he walked around the fence and into the back yard. We gave him one of the shower doors and he began to bounce.

He could bounce much higher than we could both because he was heavier and because he was stronger than we were. In fact I wasn't sure the doors would hold his weight, but he wanted to try. Higher and higher he went and then he threw his shower door up and began to fly. I remember being surprised to see him gliding along holding a shower door above his head. Of course, I think that sight would surprise most people.

I was very young and so parts of this story are a bit fuzzy. I don't remember how many test flights Marcus took before he decided to make his play for the fence, but I can see that last flight in my mind even now. He bounced higher than he had during all his short glides and then threw his mighty glider up at the peek of his bounce. I can still see him in my minds eye heading for the top of the fence slowly getting lower and lower.

I was trying to decide if he could make it. I was sure that he couldn't, his legs were just to low. Then, right before he hit the fence he jerked his entire body up into a ball. His legs flew over the top. I couldn't believe it, he was going to make it! Well, that's what I thought for a split second. As it happened he didn't quiet get over the fence. The bottom of his pants caught the top of the fence and he had accidentally flown to close to a tree that grew on the other side.

As soon as his pants caught he knew he was going to fall. He immediately let go of the shower door and actually managed to grab on to the tree before he fell. So, there he was with his butt stuck to the top of a fence hanging by his arms out of a tree. We burst out laughing as he hung there twisting his rear end trying to get the fabric to break free.

During this time Marcus's older brother Terry had walked down to our house. He stood there looking at Marcus stretched out at full length hanging from his arms and butt and laughed for a while. After much begging Marcus convinced Terry to get him out of the tree. Terry reached up and plucked Marcus down like a ripe fruit. (Terry was another of the huge kids in town and much older than me.)

That was the end for the shower doors really. We continued to play with them. However, we never managed to achieve anything like that again. Marcus had done what you could do with them. Now, I feel certain many of you are thinking “No way!”, but that is, in fact, just how it happened. Life's like that sometimes, it does unbelievable things.

Even though the shower doors were put down shortly after that it wasn't the end of our trampoline adventures. One thing many young boys love is danger. They love to feel that they could be mortally wounded at any time by the great risks they're undertaking. It's one of the things that makes adventures adventurous. I explain this so that you can understand our motives for doing what we did next.

Dad had bought us a set of monkey bars while we still lived down in Moncks Corner. It was a dome made out of a number of interconnecting pipes. Each of these light metal pipes was flattened on each end. These flat ends were bolted together to connect the pipes and make a dome. Now, Dad had taken the monkey bards down and brought them with us when we moved. However, he never got around to putting them back together again. So, one of the things we had around the backyard was a pile of metal pipes flattened on each end. (This is important to keep in mind.)

Joshua, Jim and I, along with other kids in the neighborhood loved to trampoline fight. We would get on and bounce around kicking and hitting each other trying to knock on another off of the trampoline and out into the yard. It was a game we loved. One day we decided that it would be more fun if there was a real chance that the looser would really get hurt. We talked about how we could do this and once we decided we started working away. We had decided to make the “Trampoline of Death!”.

A little while later Mom came out and found us fighting on the trampoline. It had been surrounded by pipes driven several inches into the ground with their flattened edges sticking strait up. The ground around the trampoline looked like the back of a metal hedgehog.

“Stop right now! What is this!” She screamed as soon as she saw what we were doing.

“It's the trampoline of death....” I replied.

“What on earth possessed you to do this!?!”

“We were trying to make it more exciting!”

“It could kill one of you!”

“Yea, that's why it's exciting.”

Needless to say that didn't pacify Mom. She was as furious as any loving mother would have been. The next little while was filled with us pulling up pipes while being yelled at. Thank the Lord no one actually had to get hurt for us to learn our lesson. Having thought about how dangerous it actually was we repented and decided not to be that fool hardy again.

That's not to give you the idea that no one ever got hurt on the trampoline. We still loved to fight and knock each other to the ground, but we were generally careful and most injuries were nothing more than scrapped knees. However, there was one exception that I feel I should include.

Jim's sister Summer had come over to the house to play with us. She was several years older than us and usually didn't bother playing with us “little boys”. On this particular day my cousin Chris was over at our house. That may explain why Summer was over there. In any event, they decided to play the trampoline fight game. As most of you remember young boys and girls often fight in order to flirt. Well, as I have mentioned in other stories, Chris was a colossus who didn't know his own strength. He had been bouncing Summer around like a rag doll and finally decided to give her the dreaded double bounce.

Some of you may not know what a double bounce is, so I'll explain it. When bouncing on a trampoline you extend the springs when you hit the mat. You then bend you legs and jump up just as the mat has thrown you as high as it can. To “double jump” someone you have to hit the mat right before them. You push the mat down so that when they hit the mat it goes even lower. Then you pull your legs up as quick as you can. The result will be that the trampoline hits them with all the elasticity of both “bounces”.

This is what Chris did to Summer. She was much lighter than him and shot into the air maybe twelve feet. It also threw her almost off the trampoline. Almost, but not quiet. She landed on her side of the edge of the trampoline. The edge of our trampoline was a rectangular steel bar. It was, at least, as solid as a rock. The results were simple. She was rushed to the hospital.

Chris was mortified. He had possibly broken a twelve year old girl's ribs and it was a girl he liked. That's what young love is like... It's dangerous... The long and short of it was that we were no longer allowed to trampoline fight. Well, not when any adult knew we were doing it. Summer lived through the ordeal and learned a little bit about life.

I was told that it had, in fact, broken one of her ribs, but I'm not certain that it's true. We were young enough that the terms “hurt” and “broken” were often interchangeable. I do remember that she didn't play with us again for weeks, but that could have been simply because she didn't want to take any unnecessary risks.

We moved not long after that and Dad never put our trampoline back together at Lake Drive. I suppose he had learned his lesson. Jim's mother didn't learn the lesson, however, and a few years later she bought a trampoline. There are more stories that revolve around that particular mat, but I will leave those for another day. For the moment I feel I have shared enough of our trampoline adventures.

My Dad: Mr Fix-it

I feel certain that at some point almost everyone's Dad tries to fix something that doesn't want to be fixed. However, my Dad could be the patron saint of that. Fritz Ethridge – Patron Saint Of Attempting To Fix The Unfixable. Something like that anyway. For those of you who have never heard any of these stories you can take a quick read over "Fritz Vs. Washing Machine" to get a clear idea.

I now unfold two tales concerning two machines that didn't want to be fixed. There are those who still hold to the old ideas that machines are just machines and that they don't have desires. They cling to the antiquated idea that machines are mindless servants and that the great mechanical revolution will never take place. I ask those readers, who may yet believe these peaceful delusions, to open their minds and eyes as they consider these tales. Not only is the great machine war inevitable, it began long ago and my Dad has always been willing to take up arms against the machines.

Time Period: Early Nineties
Location: Williston, SC, USA
Operative: Craftsman Lawn Tractor
Operation: Drive human insane by not mowing lawn

One of the earliest skirmishes I remember was between Dad and a Craftsman Lawn Tractor. He bought the tractor shortly after we moved to Lake Drive. We had moved from a rental property to our own three acre yard. Dad didn't like the idea of push mowing three acres of lawn (I don't think many of us would.) so he bought a tractor.

It was a truly excellent machine. Joshua, Sam and myself used it for a car as soon as we hit our teens. Dad had built this wagon for it so he could tow this or that across the yard. We would hook the wagon up and pile in while Sam took the wheel. He called it “The Tank” because you could run over almost anything with it and it would keep going.

We would drive from our house out to Sam's Mom's place or out to his Grandmothers and pick up whoever wanted to come along for the ride. I admit that all our territory only covered a few city blocks, but it was still great. When you are thirteen and can drive around the neighborhood with a wagon load of friends you look pretty cool.

The point is that the tractor was a very robust machine that gave us great service for years. I guess a side point is that Dad would let us run around doing almost anything provided he thought it was harmless. I should also point out that as much time as we spent on the tractor we pretty much disappeared when it was time to actually mow anything. That was Dad's province.

After a few years the tractor began to wear down. It was getting old and tired and ready for retirement. It had a good run with us and would still get out there and haul us around as long as it was having fun. However, it got tired of mowing the lawn. At least, that's one theory. Whatever the reason, it wouldn't work when Dad tried to mow with it.

Dad approached this problem, like so many others, with childlike optimism. The tractor wouldn't mow, but that wasn't a big problem, all he had to do was fix it. That brings to mind Dad's phrase “All I have to do is...” He'll say this when he intends to explain how simple whatever you're about to have to do is. When he says this you can be sure trouble is on the way.

“A I have to do is pull it apart and see what's wrong.” He said. (Or something just like that.)

It was enough to make the blood run cold. Dad parked the tractor in the shed and began to work. At first things went well enough. That is to say that he got it pulled apart. However, it seems that was the easy part. The days began to pass in rapid succession during the “put it back together” phase. As the time passed more and more interesting language began to come out of the shed.

Finally Dad walked out during a moment of clarity and began talking to himself.

“I understand it now. Everything has finally become clear to me.”

At this point he was perfectly calm and seemed quiet normal.

“The reason that the tractor can't be repaired is really very simple. It's not difficult to understand at all.”

By this time he had begun to get more excited. A mania seemed to be pushing it's way forward from the back of his mind.

“It's because of one simple fact. The Devil lives in my tractor!”

The last line was screamed at the top of his lungs. He went on for a while about why the Devil would want to set up shop in his tractor and what have you. Sad, sad, thing to see Dad like that. Sam, Joshua and I laughed until we nearly cried.

After a few more weeks it looked like Dad had finally gotten it running. He started it in the shed and everything was running fine. He turned the blades on and it sat there as if it were actually mowing lawn. After a few minutes of testing he decided that things were working well enough. He began to mow.

He was absolutely glowing with pride as he pulled out of the shed and started to cut the overgrown grass. He was filled with joy that was simply pouring off of him. Just looking at him at that moment would have filled you with a sense of peace and happiness.

After about fifty feet of cut grass the tractor stopped. Not only would it not mow, it wouldn't even start. Dad sat there turning the key over and over as the rage built up inside. He was mulling over the turn of events in his head. At last he had a breakthrough:

“I've got it! Now I understand!” He yelled at the top of his lungs.

“All this time I had it wrong! All this time I was looking at it from the wrong point of view! The Devil doesn't live in my tractor... He lives in my lawn!!! That's why I can't mow it! It's his home! He doesn't want me destroying his home! That is why nothing will ever be able to mow my lawn again!!!!”

In spite of Dad's prediction he did finally get it working again. The faithful old tractor gave up on the resistance movement. I suppose it decided it didn't want to die having been pulled apart by Dad and never put back together again. The machine fought well, but it picked the wrong man to fight.

Still, that's not to say that the machines were discouraged. They certainly didn't intend to give up just because of one failure. The tractor had failed. That was an acceptable loss. It simply meant that another operative had to go in.

Time Period: Late Nineties
Location: Williston, SC, USA
Operative: Craftsman Tiller
Operation: Drive human insane by refusing to till and then refusing to stop

Dad had gotten the tiller used. It was one of his better purchases. For years it worked great and helped Dad to till some very successful gardens. It was a good machine as long as you used it for what it was for. However, I would often borrow Dad's tools and equipment and make unconventional use of them.

Although he would complain after I broke something he never complained while I was breaking it. I admit that sometimes he didn't know what I was up to until after I had broken it. However, sometimes I think that he thought that whatever I was doing was going to work as much as I did. Whatever the reason he almost never stopped me.

I mention this fact because this tale actually begins with me borrowing the tiller. I was a great digger of holes as a child and I kept it up into my late teens. Me and the guys were working on digging a little root cellar on the back of Dad's property. We had run into some clay that was as hard as iron and the work slowed down to a crawl.

Josh and I talked it over and one of us came up with the idea of using the tiller. We planned to break the clay up and then dig it out of the ground in chunks. At first it worked wonderfully and we began to make progress again. However, after a few minutes disaster struck. The tiller died. I seems we had put too much of a load on it. The poor thing couldn't take any more and it broke down.

That kicked off another cycle of Dad fighting on weekends trying to get it running again. It was a struggle, but at last the day came when he got it cranked and it was ready to once again till the soil. Dad decided to start by tilling a section of the yard he hadn't gardened in for years. I happened to be out in the front yard doing this and that when Dad came out walking behind the tiller.

He had put so much work into it that it made me feel good to see him out there getting something done with it. (Some of you may be thinking that I should have helped him get it running, but at the time I had even less mechanical skill than I do now.) Things were going beautifully at first. Dad was waking along leaving wonderfully tilled soil behind him.

Then something happened. I think he may have hit a root or perhaps something just fired wrong in the engine. Either way, the tiller paused for a second and then lurched forward. The result was that Dad had time to take one step too close to the tiller and then it leaped away. It jerked him off his feet and dropped him, face first, into nice soft soil.

He jumped up furious and covered in dirt. He began to yell at the tiller. He called it everything he could think of and with my Dad that's quiet a bit. The tiller ignored him and continued to till along. You see, normally there is a kill switch on a tiller. If you let it go it is supposed to stop. For whatever reason this switch wasn't working at the moment. That made Dad even more furious.

“Fine!” He screamed as loud as he could. “You want to leave? Go! I don't care! Go ahead and leave!!!”

As he screamed this he was walking away in one direction as the tiller was tilling along in another. It was very much like a lover's tiff. I stood there watching this play out. It was as if I was mesmerized. I couldn't think or act, I could only watch.

The tiller continued on it's way and finally made it out of the yard and into the road. I watched the sparks flying out from under it's spinning blades as it made it's way across the asphalt. At last it reached Mrs. Dick's yard. I remember thinking that I should yell out to Dad and let him know that it was tilling up her yard. I was so stunned that I can't be sure whether I yelled or not.

What I do know is that Dad finally turned around and saw it making it's away across our neighbor's yard. He began running toward it with unbelievable speed. He flew across the road and began turning the tiller around. Fortunately it had only tilled into her yard thirty or forty feet. He got it across the road safely and back into our yard. The tilling monster was brought back under control.

After that the tiller behaved itself. I suppose that it felt that after it's get away was foiled there wasn't much more it could do. Few tillers could claim to have run off on their own and gotten as far as it had. Either way it could have only made it as far as a tank of gas would get it. All in all it did very well for a rebellious machine.

The point, in short, is that man faces the machine rebellion every day. Men like my Dad drove it back in former days. Now days I work along beside Dad fighting burned out bearings and leaking oil. I suppose it goes back to the days when men's bows wouldn't shoot strait and will go on until space ships are making a weird knocking noise. However, mankind has always won and always will. It's just a matter of testing our patience and perseverance. Dad may not have much patience, but he has perseverance to spare. For that we have to respect him!

Happy father's day everyone!