I woke up early this morning. Actually couldn’t sleep. Started thinking about how I am raising my son and how I must have given my mom so many grey hair while growing up.
I wouldn’t think of letting my son do the things I did as a kid; however, mom had no knowledge anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t the type of kid who was involved in anything bad, like smoking or drugs, but I was quite the daredevil in my day.
When I was a kid, my best friend ever, Ricky and I spent all our time together. We build cabins, we fished, camped, rode our bikes, and built go-carts.
The go-cart incident still sticks out in my mind. Ricky was quite the carpenter in his day. He could build anything with just a few pieces of wood and old junk he found in his dad’s garage. I remember once, we scrapped his dad’s old snowmobile. The suspension featured little wheels called ‘boogie-wheels’. Ricky tore the suspension apart and retrieved these wheels, which measured about five inches in height. With that, we cut a piece of plywood in two so that it measured 8 foot by three, and fastened the wheels to the board. Ricky fixed two pieces of rope to each side of the wheels and inserted a long bolt in the middle, and created a steering system. Our own invention for brakes was a hole in the floor in which we inserted the lug wrench from his dad’s truck (I still remember his dad cussing at us for taking it without asking him).
We brought our contraption to the top of the steepest hill in the community. The contractors had just laid a covering of new pavement, and the hill was as smooth as a baby’s ass. (Ricky’s description, not mine)
Like two Olympians on a luge, we lay on our backs, me manning the brake and Ricky steering, we took off like a light, only to have the steering rope break. We should have used new rope, but we were too poor to buy any, besides, Ricky’s dad had lots of used rope in the shed. Anyway, without steering, it was up to me to apply the brake. I shoved the lug wrench handle into the hole and it scraped on the pavement, but to no avail. Perhaps a trial run was in order, but hey, we were kids!
The little cart (or board with wheels attached) took off, the two of us screaming like banshees, and headed down the hill. Just when things couldn’t get any worst, we seen it. A Honey-Bee bread truck heading towards us. With the two of us on our backs, not six inches from the road, he couldn’t have seen us. He didn’t apply his brakes, but headed straight for us….and over us. That’s right, we went right under his truck.
Ricky used to stutter, but for a brief moment, and I will never forget it….he didn’t. He let out a ‘WHOA” and said “HOLEEEY FUCK! WHAT A FUCKING RUSH! LET’S DO IT AGAIN!”
Of course, I didn’t. Scared me straight I guess!
Ricky was such a good carpenter for an eleven year old kid. He could have done something with his life if only he didn’t discover drugs and booze.