Ok, I’ll tell you a real story without changing any names! I have to set it up for you so you understand the spiritus mundi of that time.
In 1978, the conservative culture had lost. Nixon had resigned and was disgraced, Vietnam finally ended a few years earlier and Archie Bunker types became the butt of jokes.
I had a neighbor, a Mr. Jeffries who was from the WW2 generation. He was a nail eating type who never saw combat in WW2. He made no bones about voicing his opinion on the hippies, rock music or anything that was against the Vietnam War. He was proudly anti Communist and told anyone within earshot. I never did like Mr Jeffries. I could remember disliking him at five years of age.
Ok…
My Dad had died a year earlier so I was free to do whatever the hell I wanted. I grew my hair out long. I was free and easy. I would stay out late and go anywhere I wanted without a reprimand from Mom. Want to know why I could get away with it? I never gave my Mom any major trouble. I never brought the cops home with me and my grades were excellent in school. I was stable.
One day in the summer of ‘78 I was riding my bike on a lazy August afternoon by Mr. Jeffries house. I was bored and wasting the afternoon away being completely unproductive. For some reason, he bolted out his front door and pointed at me and said rather loudly:
“Your father in heaven would be ashamed of you now!”
I just straddled my bike, wondering what on earth did I do to provoke that? I didn’t know it then but my appearance and lack of discipline he thought I needed, pissed him off to no end. I had become a reprobate in one year’s time due to the lack of guidance from my staid, very dead, Republican Dad.
There are times when you are stung by some biting criticism and you come up with a great comeback a few days later. You wish you could go back and fling it at the offender, but, it’s too late.
This time…that didn’t happen.
I looked at Mr Jeffries, and said:
“What makes you think my Dad is in heaven?”
He just stared at me, slowly turned around and went inside his house without saying a word.
I gave him what he wanted to believe and in doing so, crushed him. Here was this 13 year old kid, now obviously a god-less, little pinko commie, spitting on his father’s memory.
In truth, I was ditching the religion before that. Life after death, heaven and all that stuff was being weakened in me when I discovered biology courses in school The Church had lousy explanations for why the world worked. Science had more tangible ones that made more sense. I began to believe the real place of my Dad was 2 ½ miles away, in Mt St Mary’s Cemetery and not on some cloud plucking a harp.
And…the neighborhood thought of my Dad as one of those trustworthy, good guys. “Richard was a good, decent man” I would hear often. Let me tell you, my Dad understood the nature of image and putting forth a nice front! My Dad at the time completely understood PR. He worked in the banking industry and when pushing loans on people, you have to come off as honest! By the way, he wasn’t all that angelic if I were to tell you everything about him. So his being in heaven due to his “decency” is iffy! So, my rebuke to Mr. Jeffries was a harsh one in his eyes, with his understanding of my Dad.
In truth, I didn’t care what Mr. Jeffries thought of me. In fact, the more he hated me, the better.
So many years have passed since that event. I have to wonder though. What would you think of a 57 year old man shouting to a 13 year old kid, about his dead Dad’s ephemeral opinion of his son?
Weird guy…
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
You're All Full of It!!
A personality trait I had as a kid was that I couldn’t help but mention to everyone about “the elephant in the room.” As a kid, you overhear adults have their conversations and most were boring. But what was interesting, when I found adults gossiping awfully, they could also completely backtrack on just what they had said in the same sentence.
I then interjected my astonished answer, “He rolled over dump truck into the Blackstone River! He’s a DRUNK!”
Everyone in the room guffawed. I wasn’t the laughter of a kid saying something “cute.” It was the nervous laughter of being “caught.“ I exposed hypocrisy!
“Out of the mouth of babes” and all that!
My Uncle then said to me: “Ronnie, you’re smart, but you’re too smart for your own good.”
I didn’t understand that comment at 8 years of age. Being smart, I was told, was the best thing you could ever attain. Well, I eventually did learn what he meant. I learned not to spit out my opinion so quickly.
*****
A few years later my brother began bringing home a magazine called the National Lampoon. I opened it and in it they dumped on the church, government, parents, teachers and any fine institution. If someone or group was claiming the moral high ground, National Lampoon was sure to expose the bullshit.
One of their cartoonists was Shary Flenniken who created, what I thought, was a pretty funny strip of a girl and her talking dog who would carp on the day’s hypocrisy. It’s no longer in print but the internet is great for finding fossils of the past now.
This magazine, plus my upcoming biology classes in high school, helped to happily ruin any faith that may have germinated within me as a child. That sounds awfully cynical but I have to say this…it was realistic. I had very few illusions about people and believing “happy horseshit” wasn’t going to cut it for me.
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Monday, July 26, 2010
Madmen
I can see, very well.
There's a boat on the reef with a broken back.
And I can see it very well.
There's a joke, and I know it very well.
It's one of those that I told you long ago.
Take my word! I'm a madman don't you know!
I bought this cd in 1987 just after a Montreal trip I had taken. I listened to it incessantly. Today I heard it while I was lounging in the backyard and an old thought hit me, the old Navy Pea coat I used to own.
I had managed to find it robbing my brother's old Navy clothing. I put it on and thought "How damn cool is this!" I understood then why women can find wearing certain clothing “makes them feel better.” For me, it was wearing something as common as a pea coat. Also, for some other reason I can’t explain, there was good luck attached to it. I guess it’s sort of like the myth that baseball players refuse the wash certain socks as that will “remove all the luck out of them.” That pea coat was full of “luck.”
I also once wore to threadbare a Van Huesen collared shirt that made me feel great as well. With it, I could hit up clubs and confidently mash on the girls. That shirt too had “good luck.”
None of this is based on logic you know. We create our own worlds as we see fit. We tend to vacillate between nice ones or horror show ones. Thankfully, we create one that is sort of neutral most of the time.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Summer of Sam + 3 Years
For those of you alive and aware in 1980, do you remember that heat wave? I do. It was a son of a bitch to sweat through. These past few weeks I’ve been having memories of when I was 16 then.
I can remember walking through our house, with all the shades down trying to keep the direct sunlight out. No matter, I was sweating like a pig anyways. In the summer of 1980, I had cabin fever for god’s sake! You coped by staying indoors out of the swill heat but in doing so, you started going a bit batty.
I had to go outside to escape the house but standing in our backyard with that broiling sun was no relief either.
I had a ten speed bike back then when they were all the rage to have. I was riding the trails on the Turner reservoir and noticed the even hotter, more humid patches when the trail dipped towards the wetlands. It was so hot even the bugs in there stopped their chorus.
These memories are popping up now. I wonder why?
We had a thunderstorm just roll by here. Sure, it got cooler…and the dew points shot up to 70% as well. And to top it all off, the sun came out right after to bake that rain into steam so the air can be just as sloppy.
Just plain gross.
*****
Son of Sam, the Wicked King Wicker, aka David Berkowitz I remember as a well. He popped up routinely in the national news when he shot another women in the head every so often in New York city. “Son of Sam Strikes Again” you’d see in some papers. If you didn’t know, “Sam” was a neighbor’ dog who was possessed by Satan and gave orders to Berkowitz to kill, according to his lawyer’s defense.
In the summer of ‘77, my mother had an aunt who took some pity on her and invited us over her home for an afternoon. My mom had lost her husband and was not doing well at all. I never knew of this aunts existence till the day we visited, all of ½ mile away.
Our family never did visit our relatives that much even though all of us lived within…2 miles of one another. It wasn’t till much later did I find that there were undercurrents that took place decades before I was born. Also, some of our relatives I cared little for because I wasn’t used to real, heavy duty Irish alcoholism. My parents drank little and if they did, it would be the weekends.
I met this new aunt with some cynicism. What type of mental illness does THIS one have I wondered? Or, is this one a major BITCH?
I was pleasantly surprised to find out she was actually normal and treated me as a person. As a young teen, my view on most adults was a dim one since I knew many were complete fuck ups and had NO ground to stand on when they pontificated to me about life. I didn’t suffer fools gladly then and I really, really do not now.
Around 4pm the Providence Journal’s second edition came to the aunt’s house. I asked if I could read it. Fresh, virgin papers are better to read than ones passed through five people you know! I had laid it out on her floor and the headline had read: “Son of Sam Caught, NYC Relieved.”
Reading it, I thought out loud, “So many lunatics in this world..”
The aunt, who overheard me, responded: “Ronnie, get used to it, there are many more out there…and some you’re going to meet will be just a shade less crazy than Berkowitz.”
Wow, I thought to myself. This was one of the first times I’ve ever had a relative who made decent sense. Also, she was one person who didn't set off my own personal "smoke detector." We each have that, it rings LOUDLY when we meet new people that warn us to stay the hell away. If fact, my detector ran in reverse, it told me to get to know her.
However, we never visited again. I don’t know why. I had asked my Mom if we could go back but she just brushed the idea off. Mom was in no condition to handle much then.
I’m sure this aunt is long since gone now.
But, I still remember her.
I can remember walking through our house, with all the shades down trying to keep the direct sunlight out. No matter, I was sweating like a pig anyways. In the summer of 1980, I had cabin fever for god’s sake! You coped by staying indoors out of the swill heat but in doing so, you started going a bit batty.
I had to go outside to escape the house but standing in our backyard with that broiling sun was no relief either.
I had a ten speed bike back then when they were all the rage to have. I was riding the trails on the Turner reservoir and noticed the even hotter, more humid patches when the trail dipped towards the wetlands. It was so hot even the bugs in there stopped their chorus.
These memories are popping up now. I wonder why?
We had a thunderstorm just roll by here. Sure, it got cooler…and the dew points shot up to 70% as well. And to top it all off, the sun came out right after to bake that rain into steam so the air can be just as sloppy.
Just plain gross.
*****
Son of Sam, the Wicked King Wicker, aka David Berkowitz I remember as a well. He popped up routinely in the national news when he shot another women in the head every so often in New York city. “Son of Sam Strikes Again” you’d see in some papers. If you didn’t know, “Sam” was a neighbor’ dog who was possessed by Satan and gave orders to Berkowitz to kill, according to his lawyer’s defense.
In the summer of ‘77, my mother had an aunt who took some pity on her and invited us over her home for an afternoon. My mom had lost her husband and was not doing well at all. I never knew of this aunts existence till the day we visited, all of ½ mile away.
Our family never did visit our relatives that much even though all of us lived within…2 miles of one another. It wasn’t till much later did I find that there were undercurrents that took place decades before I was born. Also, some of our relatives I cared little for because I wasn’t used to real, heavy duty Irish alcoholism. My parents drank little and if they did, it would be the weekends.
I met this new aunt with some cynicism. What type of mental illness does THIS one have I wondered? Or, is this one a major BITCH?
I was pleasantly surprised to find out she was actually normal and treated me as a person. As a young teen, my view on most adults was a dim one since I knew many were complete fuck ups and had NO ground to stand on when they pontificated to me about life. I didn’t suffer fools gladly then and I really, really do not now.
Around 4pm the Providence Journal’s second edition came to the aunt’s house. I asked if I could read it. Fresh, virgin papers are better to read than ones passed through five people you know! I had laid it out on her floor and the headline had read: “Son of Sam Caught, NYC Relieved.”
Reading it, I thought out loud, “So many lunatics in this world..”
The aunt, who overheard me, responded: “Ronnie, get used to it, there are many more out there…and some you’re going to meet will be just a shade less crazy than Berkowitz.”
Wow, I thought to myself. This was one of the first times I’ve ever had a relative who made decent sense. Also, she was one person who didn't set off my own personal "smoke detector." We each have that, it rings LOUDLY when we meet new people that warn us to stay the hell away. If fact, my detector ran in reverse, it told me to get to know her.
However, we never visited again. I don’t know why. I had asked my Mom if we could go back but she just brushed the idea off. Mom was in no condition to handle much then.
I’m sure this aunt is long since gone now.
But, I still remember her.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Man Overboard!!!
Sitting on the “porch” of our local bar last night we met a local man in his late 40’s walking the world’s tiniest Chihuahua. To me it wasn’t the dog that was odd but the man.
If ever there was an archetype of a nerd this guy was it. He had badly fitting, mismatched clothing that hung on his beanstalk frame. His glasses magnified his oddly shaped eyes and his hair was slightly greasy and completely unkempt. This was a walking billboard of geek-iness.
While the girls “ooh and ahhed” over the tiny rat-dog, I started talking to him. “You grow up here? What schools did you go to? “What do you do?“ That final question is what elaborated his entire life to me.
“I am a dishwasher.” he said without a hint of disgrace. In his late 40’s, his career path culminates in slamming up and down, the door of a dish machine. He also easily volunteered that he “lived above Shannon’s,“ a breakfast restaurant on Broadway. In Pawtucket, Broadway is a thoroughfare that is tired and worn…and so are it’s people.
I inferred this guy’s life, growing up, as always being shoved down to the lowest rung on the social ladder. His self esteem must’ve been crippled time and again to the point where it was not “going to try anymore.” And I’m sure his lack of social skills, money and perhaps a small dose of neuroticism kept him from ever attaining anything comfortable.
This guy was something of the world’s joke. A person that automatically invites derision without consciously knowing why or being able to figure out how to stop it. He seemed a harmless and a bewildered victim.
My old career in social work crept up again. It knee jerks “on” no matter whether I want it to or not.
“Have you ever wanted to try something else? Something with better hours, conditions or more money?” I asked.
He was squirrelly and evasive in his answer. “Oh, I like what I do, mostly” and quickly turned from me to make his tiny Chihuahua do a trick for one of the guys there.
How dare I make him stare straight at himself!
His little escape trick reminded me of all those I have worked with before in that old career. One of the lessons I learned back then is something called the “economy of a neurosis.”
If you’ve ever wondered why people seem to keep repeating the same mistakes, never bother changing their lives, it’s because even though their current actions keep hatching new misery, they are also producing something positive off of that same behavior. That something positive is either known or unknown to them.
Their plans and routes, to that particular “positive“, isn’t that efficient.
So, I sat back in the Adirondack chair and watched the dog do circus tricks for everyone there. Perhaps I should’ve joined the Coast Guard all those years ago. That way, I could satisfy my habitual nature to pull people up who are about to sink under.
If ever there was an archetype of a nerd this guy was it. He had badly fitting, mismatched clothing that hung on his beanstalk frame. His glasses magnified his oddly shaped eyes and his hair was slightly greasy and completely unkempt. This was a walking billboard of geek-iness.
While the girls “ooh and ahhed” over the tiny rat-dog, I started talking to him. “You grow up here? What schools did you go to? “What do you do?“ That final question is what elaborated his entire life to me.
“I am a dishwasher.” he said without a hint of disgrace. In his late 40’s, his career path culminates in slamming up and down, the door of a dish machine. He also easily volunteered that he “lived above Shannon’s,“ a breakfast restaurant on Broadway. In Pawtucket, Broadway is a thoroughfare that is tired and worn…and so are it’s people.
I inferred this guy’s life, growing up, as always being shoved down to the lowest rung on the social ladder. His self esteem must’ve been crippled time and again to the point where it was not “going to try anymore.” And I’m sure his lack of social skills, money and perhaps a small dose of neuroticism kept him from ever attaining anything comfortable.
This guy was something of the world’s joke. A person that automatically invites derision without consciously knowing why or being able to figure out how to stop it. He seemed a harmless and a bewildered victim.
My old career in social work crept up again. It knee jerks “on” no matter whether I want it to or not.
“Have you ever wanted to try something else? Something with better hours, conditions or more money?” I asked.
He was squirrelly and evasive in his answer. “Oh, I like what I do, mostly” and quickly turned from me to make his tiny Chihuahua do a trick for one of the guys there.
How dare I make him stare straight at himself!
His little escape trick reminded me of all those I have worked with before in that old career. One of the lessons I learned back then is something called the “economy of a neurosis.”
If you’ve ever wondered why people seem to keep repeating the same mistakes, never bother changing their lives, it’s because even though their current actions keep hatching new misery, they are also producing something positive off of that same behavior. That something positive is either known or unknown to them.
Their plans and routes, to that particular “positive“, isn’t that efficient.
So, I sat back in the Adirondack chair and watched the dog do circus tricks for everyone there. Perhaps I should’ve joined the Coast Guard all those years ago. That way, I could satisfy my habitual nature to pull people up who are about to sink under.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Occasionally, I get into a geek mood. This morning I was playing with “Google Earth.” Like everyone else does, I found my house. From 1,000 feet up, my house looks like the other thousands of houses in this area. I then started searching for places I’ve been. I located old workplaces, schools, fun spots and other people’s homes I have known in the past.
Recognizing those old places unleashed some detailed memories. Streets, buildings or just aerial photos of geographical areas I’ve pretty much have forgotten about came back.
I searched Paddy’s beach in Misquamicut and found an old beach home my friend once rented on the edge of an inland salt marsh about a half mile back from Paddy’s. Also Weekapaug, not too far away, was where I used to surf cast. Paddy’s…I spent many days and nights there in my 20’s.
In 1993, I visited the blast plain of Mt St Helen’s when I visited a college friend who had moved to Portland, OR. I could locate Spirit Lake with that Google thingy and that brought back memories of horizontal sleet in late July as I managed to climb the ridges. I could also follow the road via Google that brought you to its terminus, and where you had to hike/climb up blasted rubble for a while to get to that blast plain.
I found the building of my very first “real” job after college that was associated with my degree in Western Cranston. From the aerial photo, the woods have grown in quite a bit around that old place. That was where I had a silly love/hate affair with Heather.
Beaches, RI Country Club, Buck Hill Burrilville, Canon Beach Oregon, Warren RI (for God’s sake!) and about a hundred other places that had meaning for me are easily found.
It struck me that I had forgotten about the details of some of these memories. However, they flooded back when prompted. I guess our current lives forces us to somewhat forget the details of the past. Also, the pile of history I, and we, have all heaped up over the years struck me as well. “Did I really do all those things?" I guess I have.
It was nice trip down memory lane…and it reminded me of all the growing I had done, growth we all have done.
*****
In other news, this slop humidity is getting worse. How can I tell? The more humid it gets, the more my dog stinks. Dog hair oil wafts off his coat on these days.
Recognizing those old places unleashed some detailed memories. Streets, buildings or just aerial photos of geographical areas I’ve pretty much have forgotten about came back.
I searched Paddy’s beach in Misquamicut and found an old beach home my friend once rented on the edge of an inland salt marsh about a half mile back from Paddy’s. Also Weekapaug, not too far away, was where I used to surf cast. Paddy’s…I spent many days and nights there in my 20’s.
In 1993, I visited the blast plain of Mt St Helen’s when I visited a college friend who had moved to Portland, OR. I could locate Spirit Lake with that Google thingy and that brought back memories of horizontal sleet in late July as I managed to climb the ridges. I could also follow the road via Google that brought you to its terminus, and where you had to hike/climb up blasted rubble for a while to get to that blast plain.
I found the building of my very first “real” job after college that was associated with my degree in Western Cranston. From the aerial photo, the woods have grown in quite a bit around that old place. That was where I had a silly love/hate affair with Heather.
Beaches, RI Country Club, Buck Hill Burrilville, Canon Beach Oregon, Warren RI (for God’s sake!) and about a hundred other places that had meaning for me are easily found.
It struck me that I had forgotten about the details of some of these memories. However, they flooded back when prompted. I guess our current lives forces us to somewhat forget the details of the past. Also, the pile of history I, and we, have all heaped up over the years struck me as well. “Did I really do all those things?" I guess I have.
It was nice trip down memory lane…and it reminded me of all the growing I had done, growth we all have done.
*****
In other news, this slop humidity is getting worse. How can I tell? The more humid it gets, the more my dog stinks. Dog hair oil wafts off his coat on these days.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
But..I really, really, really like you!
I was talking to someone last night about the blog I created and it wasn’t (insert a name here). Ahah! Anyway, I told him it was a real problem trying to write stories that didn’t offend, piss off, or otherwise breach the trust of some people. I told him I can sometimes change the names of those innocent (but mostly guilty) and there would be a chance someone could easily put the pieces together. And some would go nuts that I publicized that particular story.
What to do? I can’t write about the weather as that will bore some to tears.
So the answer I find is that I can make a damn fool of myself instead. I won’t sue myself, I won’t write angry letters to myself or knock on my door in a state of rage on telling about myself. I won’t hear, “Oh! How could you tell the entire WORLD about that!!!!”
So here’s as little piece of my past…
*****
For those who live in Pawtucket and just about anyone who knows teen partying behavior will get this. When I was 16, we could hang at certain houses as the parents were not freaked by that, but we couldn’t have cases of beer going down our throats either. We barely had our driver’s licenses and even less the needed money to buy a car and insurance. So where do teens go to have a little party? Especially in January?
In our section of the town we had “the back of Slater Park, ” as we called it. It was a forested area with a river and a large reservoir that was difficult for the cops to get their cruisers into. It was nice for the privacy to do our little thing.
We had our keg parties there. Even in January. We’d build a bonfire and drink cheap keg beer out of those red plastic cups. If you were close enough to the bonfire, you were warm enough even though it was a cold winter night.
One of those who attended those keg parties was Ann M. (not her real name).
I’m not sure women can get this but men will. There are rare times when you meet a girl and you think to yourself, “Oh Wow, Look at her!!!“ The Italians call it being hit by a thunderbolt. You cannot get her out of your mind.
My reaction to Ann M. was that. I was thrown by it. I thought about her constantly and if I saw her or talked to her, my happiness index shot up by 1,000 points. I have to say it again, it’s RARE that any of us men get hit like this.
So, one night at “the back of Slater Park” we had left the bonfire behind the trestle and hung out underneath some high tension lines rated above, I bet, 350,000 volts. There are a few towers there that carry the lines over the Ten Mile River and that’s where were I and Ann M and about 10 others were at.
I had got it into my head that if I could just get Ann’s attention, do some stupid but glorious thing I’d really get her to notice me. That’s when, in a keg beer haze, I started climbing up the lattice work of the tower above them. I had gone just about 10 feet up when those below me started cheering my idiocy.
“Jump! Jump! Jump Ron! Be a Hero!” they chanted.
I figured, hey, I can jump down and land right next to Ann like Superman landing right next to Lois Lane. The problem was that the woods aren’t lighted like a mall parking lot. It’s quite dark and my judgment as to where to land was hampered by that cheap Budweiser.
But hey, all for love, right?
I leap and the next thing I know is that my accuracy was off by about 3-4 inches. I landed full force, brushing rather stiffly, Ann M. We both tumbled to the sand and rolled a bit. When I got up I started apologizing profusely to the girl of my dreams who I knocked to the ground.
“YOU STUPID MORON!! YOU SILLY SON OF A BITCH!!” she yelled at me. “Silly son of a bitch….” that I remember to this day!
“But, but….but…” was all I could muster.
She moved off with the other girls to rant and rave about my shoving her nearly face first into the sand and complaining what an idiot I was. I just stood there, with Dan and Mark who were laughing their ass off at me.
No. I never got to date her.
Ah well…live and learn.
Now when I think about that night, it was hilarious. I suppose by now Ann M. has forgiven me.
In my next installment, I might tell of the nice grass fire I accidently set with fireworks in Slater Park ala 1976. Hey, I was just 11. Ok Chief Thurber... now you know who did it!
What to do? I can’t write about the weather as that will bore some to tears.
So the answer I find is that I can make a damn fool of myself instead. I won’t sue myself, I won’t write angry letters to myself or knock on my door in a state of rage on telling about myself. I won’t hear, “Oh! How could you tell the entire WORLD about that!!!!”
So here’s as little piece of my past…
*****
For those who live in Pawtucket and just about anyone who knows teen partying behavior will get this. When I was 16, we could hang at certain houses as the parents were not freaked by that, but we couldn’t have cases of beer going down our throats either. We barely had our driver’s licenses and even less the needed money to buy a car and insurance. So where do teens go to have a little party? Especially in January?
In our section of the town we had “the back of Slater Park, ” as we called it. It was a forested area with a river and a large reservoir that was difficult for the cops to get their cruisers into. It was nice for the privacy to do our little thing.
We had our keg parties there. Even in January. We’d build a bonfire and drink cheap keg beer out of those red plastic cups. If you were close enough to the bonfire, you were warm enough even though it was a cold winter night.
One of those who attended those keg parties was Ann M. (not her real name).
I’m not sure women can get this but men will. There are rare times when you meet a girl and you think to yourself, “Oh Wow, Look at her!!!“ The Italians call it being hit by a thunderbolt. You cannot get her out of your mind.
My reaction to Ann M. was that. I was thrown by it. I thought about her constantly and if I saw her or talked to her, my happiness index shot up by 1,000 points. I have to say it again, it’s RARE that any of us men get hit like this.
So, one night at “the back of Slater Park” we had left the bonfire behind the trestle and hung out underneath some high tension lines rated above, I bet, 350,000 volts. There are a few towers there that carry the lines over the Ten Mile River and that’s where were I and Ann M and about 10 others were at.
I had got it into my head that if I could just get Ann’s attention, do some stupid but glorious thing I’d really get her to notice me. That’s when, in a keg beer haze, I started climbing up the lattice work of the tower above them. I had gone just about 10 feet up when those below me started cheering my idiocy.
“Jump! Jump! Jump Ron! Be a Hero!” they chanted.
I figured, hey, I can jump down and land right next to Ann like Superman landing right next to Lois Lane. The problem was that the woods aren’t lighted like a mall parking lot. It’s quite dark and my judgment as to where to land was hampered by that cheap Budweiser.
But hey, all for love, right?
I leap and the next thing I know is that my accuracy was off by about 3-4 inches. I landed full force, brushing rather stiffly, Ann M. We both tumbled to the sand and rolled a bit. When I got up I started apologizing profusely to the girl of my dreams who I knocked to the ground.
“YOU STUPID MORON!! YOU SILLY SON OF A BITCH!!” she yelled at me. “Silly son of a bitch….” that I remember to this day!
“But, but….but…” was all I could muster.
She moved off with the other girls to rant and rave about my shoving her nearly face first into the sand and complaining what an idiot I was. I just stood there, with Dan and Mark who were laughing their ass off at me.
No. I never got to date her.
Ah well…live and learn.
Now when I think about that night, it was hilarious. I suppose by now Ann M. has forgiven me.
In my next installment, I might tell of the nice grass fire I accidently set with fireworks in Slater Park ala 1976. Hey, I was just 11. Ok Chief Thurber... now you know who did it!
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