Childhood Stories?

[Sweetie]

Anybody got some to share?

I was thinking of one the other day, lol.

So I was really skinny when I was young, so this is in Gr. 5 maybe.

I really, really wanted a pair of spandex pants, spandex pants were soooo cooool and I was devastated that everytime I asked my parents for some they always said they couldn't afford it. Everybody wore spandex pants, I mooned over this one pair everytime I went into this one store.

So finally my Mom caved and bought me a pair.

The problem was, they could afford it but they just didn't want me to wear them 'cause I was just so skinny, lol. So I guess when I put them on they just were killing themselves trying not to laugh when they saw me, trying not to give me a complex. They let me go out in my own little dream world thinking all was right with the world because I had spandex pants. But I can just imagine them sitting there dying laughing inside, omg that's so funny to me looking back. :roflmao:



Ummm, ok so when I was about twelve some of my cousins came up for a couple of weeks and we were designated chores to do. Everytime my Dad would see us he'd call us by our designated names, "Happy Homemaker no. 1, Happy Homemaker no. 2, Happy Homemaker no.3." He was just trying to get under out skin. Can you imagine the looks on the faces of three twelve year old girls being forced to do chores and then suffering through that. :glare: My Dad got such a kick out of that, lol. :D

[Shake]

Wait. You mooned over a pair of them? Mightn't that be considered indecent? :P

I bet you'd look good in some spandex pants now! :lecher:

[Beth]

Gosh, right now, my childhood memories are not the best. Funny, on same days, I can remember the good times better than other days. Most of my good childhood memories are interlaced with extreme sadness.

I remember we lived next to my elementary school when I was five or six. Behind it was the school's playground and a rec center which is now a football field. Next to the school, on lower ground, was an orange grove and an acre of empty field. Every late winter, early spring on the weekends, we would go out there, my mom, my brother, my aunt, and her molesting husband, and the man whom I was told was my father and have a picnic and fly kites in the school playground, since part of it was about ten acres of empty field. My mom, my aunt and I would go down into the empty field in the orange groves, only it wasn't empty, but a beautiful carpet of color! The phlox had grown and were in bloom. I would run down into the field of color, my long hair flying in my face, getting caught in my mouth (It was relatively straight back then, odd) and I would hunt for the star phlox. They were my favorite. I was very lucky indeed! I had the fortune to pick huge bouquets full of what I thought were the most beautiful flowers in the world. We would then fly kites and I would tackle my brother and wrestle with him and play on the monkey bars and think that I was such a stinker to be playing at school when it was closed.

Another memory is of a church we attended. We got a new pastor because our old pastor had left. (I later found out he was caught having sex with the secretary-my neighbor and best friend's mother- on the altar.) Well, the new pastor had really cute sons, or at least one of them was. I would lie to the boys and say I was seven when I was really only almost six to try to impress them with my grown-up-ness. We would play chase and tag and one night I tackled the cute one, Paul, and kissed him smack dab on the lips. Hehe.

[livius drusus]

My dad teaching me how to ride a grown-up bike is a very clear memory. Turning around to check that he was holding the back of the bike while I began to pedal, then turning around again in triumph as I successfully navigated the path only to find him a good 10 feet away and smiling ear to ear.

We also used to have a yearly sangria and paella party. I loved the sangria and spanish rice, but I hated the paella (damn those little purple octopi). Of course I had to eat some anyway 'cause I had to not be a brat in front of guests.

My dad had lived in Spain for a while and not only knew how to make the real thing but even had a genuine ancient black encrusted paella pan which he only ever used this one time a year. His cooking was a huge production number and the sangria put everyone in a cheery mood. It was so lighthearted and fun I always looked forward to this event even though it was all adults.

[Ymir's blood]

/me won't post anything in order to avoid being a :buzzkill: on this thread.

[Ex-zombie]

One of my clearest memories from my childhood happened when I was staying at my Grandparent's farm. They had a rooster that was evil incarnate. It would attack and kill other animals pretty much at random. It even killed hens and chicks. This crazy rooster would also attack people. We all learned pretty quickly to stay away from it.

One day we were sitting on the back porch and the rooster was wandering around. My grandfather had recently purchased some ducks and drakes and there were now ducklings roaming near the pond. Into the yard wandered one of the ducklings. The rooster sees it immediately and puffs up, flaps his wings, and we all knew the little duckling was doomed.

The duckling sees the rooster and lets go of a little quack. Then one of the most mysterious things happened. Even to this day I can't believe it. The rooster made the chirping noise that the hens make when calling their chicks. I have never before nor since heard a rooster make that noise. The duckling quacked again and waddled over to the rooster. Thus was born a weird relationship. That little duck bonded to that huge bad-ass rooster. Even later that day when the mother duck came looking and quacking for her little one the duckling would not budge from the rooster's side.

The rooster was crazy enough before but now that he had a baby he was completely nuts. Only an insane person would go near that duckling.

[livius drusus]

Great, great story, Ex-zombie. :rooster:

[The Lone Ranger]

When I was a kid, there was an old guy named Jerry who had an excellent fishing pond. Jerry loved having company, and so all the local guys (all 6 or so of us) loved to go to his place. It was the summer hangout. Jerry always kept a bunch of comic books around, so I could keep up with the exploits of Batman and Superman and Green Lantern and all. Sometimes, I’d stay overnight, sleeping on his guest bed. In the morning, I’d help him make a fire (he cooked in a wood-fired stove), then feed his ducks and chickens. He’d cook me breakfast, then maybe we’d go dig some worms and go fishing for awhile. Eventually, I’d wander home.

Back in those innocent days, nobody thought it strange that an old man who lived alone and had never married kept a bunch of comic books handy and was always encouraging the local boys to come and visit. Nowadays, I suppose people would think something strange was going on. Jerry seemed a little lonely to me, even then, because if he had any family, he never spoke of them. He seemed to consider me, especially, and a few other local boys to be his family, which was just fine with me, because he was definitely my closest friend. Jerry had nothing at all against girls, and some of my sisters would occasionally come to visit with him too, but girls were generally much less interested in neat things like hunting and fishing. There were few better ways to spend a summer’s day than listening to Jerry tell tales of the “Good Old Days,” helping him tend his garden and his animals, and then fishing for a few hours.

In the winter, Jerry would supply mistletoe (Phoradendron leucarpum) to the local families for their Christmas celebrations. I’d go out with him to gather it. Now, if you’re not familiar with mistletoe, it grows high in trees, especially oaks, and is often well over 100 feet off the ground. Jerry was well into his 60s by this time, keep in mind. When it was time to gather mistletoe, he’d hand me a canvas bag, and he’d shoulder his rifle. We’d wander in the woods ‘til we found a tree with some mistletoe growing in its crown, Jerry would carefully aim his rifle, and shoot down a sprig. Not once did he require two shots to bring down the sprig he wanted. It was the most amazing feat of marksmanship I’ve ever been privileged to witness. He thought it was nothing.

Jerry had an old World War II-era Jeep. Man, that thing was something! It wasn’t exactly built with comfort in mind, but it would go anywhere! That thing would do everything but climb trees. Heck, it could probably have managed a pine or two if we’d ever decided to put it to the test. Many’s the time when Jerry and I would take a notion to go drive around the countryside for awhile. We’d be tooling along on some narrow, twisting, rutted dirt road; I’d be hanging on for dear life while Jerry calmly pointed out interesting flora and fauna.


One summer, we had an awful drought, and everyone’s crops were dying of thirst. The weather forecasters insisted that no relief was in sight, and we all knew that if we didn’t get some rain soon, there’d be a lot of hungry people come winter. (We were all poor. But because everyone we knew was poor, none of us actually knew we were poor, so we didn’t fret about it.)

Jerry told me a folk tale about how if you killed a snake and draped it over a tree limb, that would make it rain. Being a bright and rational-minded kid, I told him that was a bunch of hooey. We were riding along, having this discussion when Jerry spotted a large black rat snake (Elaphe obsoleta) by the side of the road. He slammed on the brakes, rearranging a few of my vertebrae in the process, leaped out of the Jeep, grabbing an axe he kept in the back in the process, and proceeded to kill the hapless snake. I was quite put-out, and let him know it. I regarded it as a senseless slaughter of an innocent animal. Nevertheless, Jerry calmly draped the unfortunate snake’s carcass over a tree limb and then we drove on. The next day, it started to rain. It rained every single day for the next two weeks, and the drought was broken.



One of the local guys, named Scott, was an occasional buddy of mine. Scott was a few years older, and my parents suspected that he might have been a bad influence. I knew he was, though it took me a while to realize it.

All of us kids had bikes, of course, if for no other reason than that our parents would have laughed themselves silly if any of us ever requested to be chauffeured to anyplace that was less than 10 miles away. Now these were real bikes, mind you – made of good, solid steel. They were great for jumping ditches and whatnot. If you happened to be going down a steep hill and you mis-judged the turn and slammed into a tree, the bike wouldn’t receive so much as a scratch. (The bike rider would receive quite a few scratches, but we all knew that a day in which you didn’t receive a few bruises, scrapes, or cuts was a day wasted.) I know, because I put this theory to the test on several occasions. Even at a tender age, I had the makings of a scientist.

We had heard the occasional rumor of rich kids who had 3-, 5-, or even 10-“speed” bicycles. Naturally, we were hard-pressed to believe such nonsense. After all, our bikes had infinite speeds. It was very simple: the faster you pedaled, the more speed you got. The neat thing about our bikes, aside from them being indestructible, was that they had coaster brakes. None of those sissy things on the handlebars that you had to squeeze when you wanted to slow down – when you wanted to stop, you turned the pedals a half-turn backwards, your rear wheel locked, and by golly you stopped! The best thing about this was that you could get up to a good speed on a gravel road – say about warp factor 2 or thereabouts – then slam on the brakes. As you do this, you lean over to the right or left, and if you execute the maneuver correctly, the bike spins around, throwing a neat cloud of dust and gravel everywhere! (If you fail to execute the maneuver properly, your bike goes flying one way while you go flying in another, only to be rudely deposited onto the gravel at a high rate of speed. But it’s nothing that a few bandages and a gallon or so of Bactine can’t handle.)


The road that led from Jerry’s house down to his pond was steep and deeply rutted. Only a maniac with a Jeep would even think about trying to take an automobile of any sort down it. Jerry, of course, drove down at least once a day.

One game that Scott and I would occasionally play was called “Chicken.” On a typical summer’s day, we’d ride over to Jerry’s. After chatting with Jerry for awhile, we’d dig some worms and then head down to the pond. So, here we were on our bikes, each of us with a fishing pole and a can of worms in one hand; the other hand was used to control the bike, of course. The rules of the game were simple: we’d start at the top of the hill, and at the signal “Go!” we’d each let off the brakes and coast down the hill toward the pond. Navigating the twisting, deeply-rutted road with one hand while trying not to lose your fishing pole or worms was quite the test of skill and nerves. The first person to “Chicken out” and hit the brakes was the loser. In my experience, the loser generally arrived at the pond in rather better shape than did the winner.

There was a particularly legendary largemouth bass (Micropterus salmoides) that lived in Jerry’s pond, and all the local anglers were quite keen to catch it. This fish was renowned for its size and for its ability to get off a hook. Scott taught me that the proper term for a fish of this size was a “Sumbitch,” and so for much of the summer I went around telling everyone I encountered that I was going to be the person who finally succeeded in catching “That Sumbitch.” I was never quite certain why so many people seemed to find that amusing, especially Scott. Jerry eventually informed me that it might not be wise to take Scott’s advice on all matters. (The fish was eventually caught by an 8-year-old kid with a simple cane pole. All the local anglers were quite thoroughly disgusted.)

I tried my hand at noodling on a few occasions, but I could never work up much enthusiasm for it. What’s noodling, you ask? Well, catfish often dig holes into the banks of ponds. What a noodler does is locate one of these holes and stick his hand into it. If there’s a catfish inside, the fish will (you hope) nip, bite down on, or if large enough, engulf your hand. This is not an entirely pleasant sensation, in my experience. You then clamp down on the fish yourself and drag it out of its hole. This is an efficient way to fish, as no special equipment is necessary (though a lot of noodlers wear gloves, since a catfish’s teeth can remove a good deal of your skin), but I was always more than a little worried that the hole I reached into might contain not a catfish but a cottonmouth (Agkistrodon piscivorous) or a snapping turtle (Chelydra serpentina). I’ve been informed that the term “noodling” is derived from a local word meaning “idiot,” and I’m inclined to believe it.

One day, Scott and I were walking down the path to the pond, having decided that conditions weren’t optimal for a game of “Chicken.” (Probably because one or both of us hadn’t fully recovered from the last game.) Just before we got to the last turn that led down to the pond, I spotted some movement out of the corner of my eye. It turned out to be a very large praying mantis (Stagomantis carolina). Mantids have always been among my favorite insects, so I stopped to observe it for awhile. Scott had little interest in the local fauna unless it happened to be edible, so he continued toward the pond. I was admiring the mantis when I heard Scott whispering to me urgently. He was a few yards ahead and motioning urgently that I should join him, but to be very quiet about it. So, I went to see what was up. Scott pointed to an elderly couple – they must have been at least 17 or 18 – engaged in some serious kissing. That was pretty gross, but what was truly puzzling was that the guy had his hands inside the girl’s shirt and seemed to be giving her a quite thorough chest examination. Perhaps he was trying to determine what those strange lumps on her chest were. After awhile, they apparently decided that the examination should be conducted in a more secluded area, and went to find one. Neither Scott nor I could figure out why any guy would want to put his hands inside a girl’s shirt, and Jerry seemed uninterested in enlightening us.

The fish were biting, though, so we had better things to worry about.

[livius drusus]

Gorgeous post, The Lone Ranger. You really should write a book.

[Dingfod]

After the stories thus far in this thread, I think that nothing I could write about my childhood memories could possibly be of comparable interest. But, since that has never stopped me before, here goes.


We had a large open grassy back yard, open because our dad cut down the immense sycamore tree that shaded the entire yard and the spot where he wanted to grow a garden. Our place was where numbers of neighborhood kids would congregate because our own family of five children often supplyed nearly half of them. Impromptu soccer, kickball, or softball games would often result, picking sides by the traditional method of alternating draft. Who picked first was determined who went first either by the "one potato, two potato, three potato, more" or the tried and true "you dirty dishrag, my mother told me to pick the very best one and you are not it, with the emphasis on 'it'" method. One by one, the team leaders would choose up sides, leaving the little kids that couldn't really contribute last. These games would go on for hours and hours, ending only when mothers began calling kids in for supper or until the ball went under the house.

You did not want to go under the house. Under the house was a forboding place, a place of rats, spiders, snakes, centipedes, and other unknown terrors. In the neighborhood where we lived, all the houses were up on blocks, piers made of concrete or bricks. They were conventional houses, but due to overabundant soil moisture and a lack of real winter weather full perimeter foundations were not required or even desired. If you were lucky, the ball would go under a house that was like ours, the outer walls about a foot off the ground, but once underneath, the floor joists were a couple feet off the ground, leaving some comfortable headroom if you had the unpleasant task of retrieving lost game balls, frisbees, or the neighbor's cat.

I, frequently being the oldest kid in the yard, would have the unpleasant task of going under the house to keep the game going. It was during these forays into the dark, dank unknown that I discovered my inner sanctum. I found out that if you went more than just a few yards into the man-made cave, the soil was high and dry, unlike everywhere else in Beaumont, Texas. I also found that if I went under the house, nobody bothered me. Nobody else was going under there to find me. It was my secret place. If you had to share a bedroom with two brothers and two sisters, you'd need a secret place too.

It was really only during the winter months that I had to share the bedroom, a room approximately twelve by twelve feet with two small closets, a door to the living room and another to Mom and Dad's room, and still another, although unused , to the single bathroom. The bathroom door, the third door on the same wall as the closets, was unused because on our room's side, it had a shoe rack, with about thirty and a half pairs of shoes on it and on the other side of the door, the dirty clothes hamper. The only remaining wall had the single tall double-hung window. The room was full of furniture, one double bed for my sisters, a bunkbed for my brothers, and an Army surplus cot for me.

I slept on that cot with it's three inch thick cotton tick mattress from about age 5 to age 16. When I was 5 and 6 years old in The Panhandle I had my own small bedroom, but that was before my younger brothers were born. When I was 7 and 8 years old in Wichita I had a "room" in the basement. That "room" consisted of a square of carpet in the corner of the wide-open unfinished basement, the center of which was occupied by the giant black octopus of a formerly coal fired gas burning furnace. I didn't care, it was a space of my own.

For the two years we lived in Memphis, I shared a room with my two little brothers, Paul still in the baby bed. Then we moved to Beaumont, into that little crackerbox of a house with its two small bedrooms. It did have a screened back porch though, which became my summertime bedroom, with my cot and my little chest of drawers. But, that bedroom was anything but private. Anyone coming in from the backyard, whether to go to the bathroom or to the kitchen, would traipse through "my room". So, I needed that place under the house to escape from everyone else, to have my privacy respected. I find that I still need that private place.

[livius drusus]

Wow, warrenly. I can't even imagine being so crowded and exposed. Then again, having the core of a sports team handy must have been pretty cool. As an only child, I always had my own room, but I also spent many a weekend afternoon playing tennis with a brick wall.

Life's full of tradeoffs, I guess.

[Dingfod]

I never had to worry about finding playmates, but because they were all younger than me I was constantly being admonished by my parents for not acting more mature. I was still playing with toy cars and trucks in the dirt with my little brothers when I was 13. At the time we lived in a never completed subdivision with only four houses in it three miles from town. I didn't know anyone, what the hell else was I supposed to do. Everytime I did anything resembling normal behavior for a 13 year old I got into trouble and then when I didn't, I was in trouble too. I could never win.

It was during that time in that unfinished rural subdivision that I took up roping as a hobby. I got so good at it, I could rope my brothers by their feet as they ran away from me, also known as heeling in calf-roping. If I could see it and a rope could fit around it and it was with a rope length, I could throw a rope on it. I would ride my Scwinn Stingray up and down the street, roping this and that, as though I was a cowboy on horseback. Little brothers, cats, dogs and the neighbor's pet raccoon would all go running if they saw me coming on "Ol' Red". My roping era came to an end when I roped a fence post while at the same time, got the rope tangled in the handlebars. The rope went taught, the bike jerked and bucked to a stop, but I didn't. I had road rash that would've done a Harley rider proud, gravel imbedded in the elbows and knees. You have to know what that meant, Mom applying merthiolate. Geez, that stuff burned. It was almost worse than the injury itself.

[pescifish]

* Ymir's blood won't post anything in order to avoid being a :buzzkill: on this thread.
:yeahthat:
That's what I was thinking re: most notable childhood stories that come to my mind.

Plus, shit, I can't write all purdy and stuff like y'all did for your stories. Good stuff, guys!

[The Lone Ranger]

It was during that time in that unfinished rural subdivision that I took up roping as a hobby. I got so good at it, I could rope my brothers by their feet as they ran away from me, also known as heeling in calf-roping. If I could see it and a rope could fit around it and it was with a rope length, I could throw a rope on it. I would ride my Scwinn Stingray up and down the street, roping this and that, as though I was a cowboy on horseback. Little brothers, cats, dogs and the neighbor's pet raccoon would all go running if they saw me coming on "Ol' Red". My roping era came to an end when I roped a fence post while at the same time, got the rope tangled in the handlebars. The rope went taught, the bike jerked and bucked to a stop, but I didn't. I had road rash that would've done a Harley rider proud, gravel imbedded in the elbows and knees.
Good stuff, warrenly!

That sounds an awful lot like some of my childhood! Actually, so does the hideaway under the house -- I used to do exactly the same thing. On a blisteringly-hot summer's day, it was a cool and oh-so-private refuge!


You have to know what that meant, Mom applying merthiolate. Geez, that stuff burned. It was almost worse than the injury itself.
Methiolade! Man, do I ever remember that stuff!

Cheers,

Michael

[viscousmemories]

Great stories, everyone! :yup:

Reading methiolade reminded me of mecurichrome (sp?). I'm sure I haven't thought of either of those words for 25 years or more, but I remember learning them young.

[livius drusus]

Indian blood! That's what the school nurse called mercurochrome. Racist as hell, now that I think of it.

[viscousmemories]

Well I just found the answer to What happened to mercurochrome? (http://www.straightdope.com/columns/040723.html) at Straight Dope.

[The Lone Ranger]

Well I just found the answer to What happened to mercurochrome? (http://www.straightdope.com/columns/040723.html) at Straight Dope.
Oh man, my mother used to work in a battery plant! She'd bring home some mercury every now and again, and my sisters and I would play with it! We thought it was really fun stuff. If only we'd known!


***


One summer evening, just as it was getting dark, I was sitting on the back porch, enjoying the sights and sounds. As the sky faded to black and stars began to glitter, fireflies flashed in the trees and above the lawn. Out in the nearby woods, I could hear the crunching sounds caused by what must have been a deer strolling through the dry leaves. Further away, the plaintive call of a whip-poor-will could be heard.

As an aside, I should point out that though I love the call of the whip-poor-will (Caprimulgus vociferous), and though to hear one calling instantly recalls happy childhood memories, the call is only “plaintive” from a suitable distance. One night, one of ‘em landed on the roof of the house, right outside my bedroom window, and proceeded to call. Up close, they’re deafening! I soon had no choice but to lean out the window and wave my arms threateningly in the stupid bird’s general direction until it took the hint and flew away.

Anyway, I was enjoying the fireflies and the stars and the whip-poor-wills and all when I noticed some movement just in front of me. I was sitting cross-legged, and naturally, I was wearing shorts and bare-footed. I was sitting maybe 3 feet from the edge of the porch.

The movement turned out to be a large black rat snake (Elaphe obsoleta) poking its head over the edge of the porch and having a look around. I sat absolutely still, to see what it would do. Presently, the snake began to climb up onto the porch. I figured it was about 6 feet long or so – quite a good-sized snake. Once it was all the way onto the porch, the snake advanced toward me. When it reached my feet, it paused to examine my toes. At this point, I was trying very hard to hold absolutely still, and I hoped an involuntary muscle spasm wouldn’t cause one of my toes to suddenly flex. My reasoning was something like this: “This is a rat snake, and as its name implies, it eats mostly mammals of various species; I probably smell like food to it, and if one of my toes should twitch, the snake might well ‘instinctively’ bite it.” Granted, the snake wasn’t venomous, but it had lots of sharp teeth, and I didn’t particularly enjoy the prospect of being bitten. On the other hand, it was kind of intriguing to contemplate the possibility that the snake, in its enthusiasm, might try to subdue and eat my foot.

The snake examined my toes for a bit, flicking its tongue rapidly and actually brushing my toes with it a few times. It tickled. Presently, it decided that my feet weren’t potential prey and continued forward. It climbed onto my knee, and then onto my lap. Then it started up my belly and progressed up my chest. When it got up to my head, it paused, perhaps wondering if maybe it had erred in its assumption that this large object it was climbing was inanimate. For perhaps 30 seconds, we looked into each others’ eyes. It was quite a handsome serpent of glossy black. I couldn’t help but admire its powerful muscles as I felt them rippling all along my chest, belly, and legs whenever it shifted position. The snake leaned in a bit closer, and its tongue tickled my nose.

Apparently satisfied that I was no threat, the snake dropped its head down onto my right shoulder, crawled down my back, and back onto the porch. I watched it wander around the porch for awhile, presumably in search of unwary rodents, then it slipped over the edge and was gone.

[Dingfod]

It was an innocent time, a time before worrying about crime and predatory humans, a time when people actually interacted instead of holing up in their dens around the the idiot box, the boob tube, television, computers or video games. It was June and July in the late 1960s, after Daylight Savings Time was enacted by Congress, when the last rays of the sun would last until nearly 10:00 PM. Just as the Texas Panhandle skies began to darken, the neighborhood would come to life, going outside into the relatively cooler air, the mothers would gather in one front yard or another, the toddlers playing at their feet or riding their tricycles up and down the nearest driveway. The older, more ambulatory kids would gather to play games like Tag or one of our massive Hide-And-Seek extravaganzas.

The first step in Tag or Hide-And-Seek was establish boundaries and Homebase. The boundaries would very often be from the corner by the Jackson's house to the alley behind our house. All the front and side yards on both sides of our street, including carports, were "in bounds", but backyards or inside houses, sheds, or garages, were not. Homebase was often the mimosa tree in front of the Bailey's house, but sometimes it was the brick planter box beside the Carson's driveway.

The boundaries were enforced by neighborhood dogs. You didn't try to hide in the alley beyond the middle of the block because there were two mean Chow dogs in one yard on the next street. We just knew they would tear a kid limb from limb if they could've gotten out. Their barking always gave you away if you tried cutting through or hiding in the alley. Then there was Nibs, the Jackson's Bull Terrier, who would try to tear their backyard fence down if you hid in the juniper bushes nearby.

Hide-And-Seek in the scant light of the Texas Panhandle evening was something of an adventure. There were tripping hazards in abundance, grass burrs and goatheads in the less than perfectly groomed yards, the sharp points of the holly shrubbery and rose bushes as well as the normal hazards of running in zig-zag patterns over rough terrain, the bicycles laying in the grass, and between cars parked in the street, trying to avoid being tagged "Out" or "It."

After what didn't seem like near long enough hours of laughter, screaming, panting, drinking water from the hose, getting scratched by the various obnoxious anti-people plants, getting dirty from hiding under porches and those parked cars, and getting itchy from chiggers, we would be called in by our mothers. "Time to come in and get cleaned up for bed, kids." After much 'Aw, Mom'-ing, we would all comply and tramp into the house, shedding flip-flops and PF-Flyers as we entered the door. Once bathed, or at least with washed faces, hands, and feet, we'd crawl into bed, falling asleep instantly, completely tuckered-out.

[The Lone Ranger]

As soon as I learned to read, I simply devoured books. Stories of knights in armour selflessly rescuing people from evil were particular favorites. Those wondrous stories may have warped my perception of reality, to some extent. I decided early that what I really wanted to be when I grew up was a knight-errant, roaming the world and doing fearless battle with the forces of darkness.

When I was 13, I was offered a role in a class production of “The Three Musketeers.” Perfect! One guy, Ken, found some pieces of wood of the proper length and fashioned them into quite decent “swords” for us. The play was fun and all, though no drama critics rushed the stage to sign me up for an acting career. The really neat thing about it was that I got to keep the “sword.”

I kept that sword for months, and many a day on weekends and into the summer was spent in mortal combat with giants, ogres, dragons, and other nasties. Eventually, the sword self-destructed. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.


My pal Mark was a particular fan of the comic-book character Daredevil. If you’re unfamiliar with the character, he carries a billy club, with which he subdues evil-doers. Mark and I decided that it would be cool to have billy clubs of our own, so got some appropriately-sized pieces of wood and *ahem* borrowed his dad’s power tools to make ourselves some weapons. We did it up right, too. My billy club was a perfectly-balanced piece of white oak that we sanded perfectly smooth. We used a router to shape it to my hand and thus improve the grip. We drilled a hole in the end and looped a leather thong through it so that you didn’t need to actually hang onto it, but could let it dangle from your wrist. I fashioned a clip so that I could clip it to my pants and “quick-draw” my weapon in the event of a surprise attack. We even took some red and blue electrician’s tape and decorated it appropriately. It was truly a work of art.

Mark and practiced relentlessly with our billy clubs. We taught ourselves all sorts of neat spinning techniques that would doubtless impress the heck out of anyone foolish-enough to assault us. Surely, any would-be assailant would take one look at our astounding prowess and immediately flee in terror, we reasoned. (Neither of us, of course, had the slightest intention of ever actually hitting anyone.) Granted, we could never quite figure out how Daredevil was able to throw his billy club in the general direction of an attacker, have it bounce off the ground, ricochet off a wall, then a tree, and strike the bad guy in the back of the head, but otherwise, we figured we were quite impressive masters of the art of self-defense with sticks.


Every knightly weapon needs a name, no? Arthur had Excalibur, Lancelot had Joyeuse (an odd name for a sword) – even Thor had Mjolnir. After much careful deliberation, I named my knightly weapon Protegrecryst. Roughly translated, this means “Protector of Crystal.” “So,” you may be wondering, “who was Crystal?”


Crystal, you see, was the girl with whom I was hopelessly, desperately in love. She was, as far as I was concerned, the living personification of all that was most admirable in the fairer sex. Others might have mistaken her for an otherwise ordinary young woman, but I knew better. She was my ideal – my Dulcinea, if you will.

I would spend much of a typical day dreaming about her, and when not engaged in this activity, trying to come up with ways to impress her. The chosen method was to impress her with my terrific wit. So, whenever I ran into her, I would strike up a conversation in order to demonstrate just how witty I could be. A typical conversation went something like this:
Me: “Hi.”
Her: “Hi.”
Me: “Say, I was wondering: do you like napples?”
Her: “Napples?”
Me: “Yeah, you know – they’re used in baking.”
Her: “I’ve never heard of them.”
Me: “Oh come on, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of pie napples!”
Her: Groan



Now, you might be under the impression that I was hoping to date her or something. Nothing could be further from the truth. True, I’d heard of something called “dating,” but I had no clear idea of what it involved. The rumour was that it involved gross stuff like kissing. I didn’t want to date her, or even have a real conversation with her because, in truth, we had little in common. For the most part, I racked my brains to come up with suitably awful jokes in order to impress her with my wit, and she seemed to be content to pretty-much ignore my existence. It was an equitable relationship.

What I really wanted was to defend her against a host of vicious attackers who were determined to do unspeakable (but unspecified) things to her, if only they could first get past me. I’d be wandering along, minding my own business, when I’d see that she was in terrible jeopardy and that I was her only hope. Without thought for my own safety, I’d leap into battle, wielding Protegrecryst bravely. The attackers would be astounded by my skill, courage, and determination. And so would Crystal, of course. Oh sure, since there were inevitably 20 or 30 of them and only one of me, one would occasionally manage to stab me or something, but I’d fight on anyway, and ultimately triumph.

Shortly after I dispatched the last of the villains, I’d collapse from my terrible and mortal (but nondisfiguring, conveniently) wounds. Crystal would sob and tear her hair and cry out over the terrible unfairness of it all. Why, oh why had the fates cursed her so? Why was it that only now – when it was too late – she was able to confess that she had been hopelessly in love with me all along, and that in pretending to ignore me she was only trying to protect herself from the possibility that I wouldn’t return her feelings – something that she could never have bourne.

As it happened, Crystal never came under assault by a vicious gang of attackers at precisely the moment that I happened to wander by. In fact, there just never seems to be a gang of vicious thugs handy when you really want one. I did my best to “wander by” as often as possible, on the off chance that some vicious thugs would show up. No such luck.

So, I guess I’ll never know if Crystal felt the same for me as I did for her.