FOUR
BROTHERS
AND
FREE-RANGE
BOYHOOD
By
Steven Overholt
Copyright 2014
Steven D. Overholt
All rights reserved
Cover Design by Sarah Christian
PLAYING CHICKEN
If a free-range lifestyle is so good for chickens,
shouldn't it be even better for boys?
Well, of course!
But I guess I'm not the only one who's noticed
that today's parenting often teeters at the brink of
overprotective. In fact, some smarty-pants somewhere has even come up
with the nifty name "helicopter parents" to describe the moms and
dads who hover over their tots at play, monitoring their every move
for any twinkle of risk or independence.
It seems like helicopter parenting is the trendy
topic of concern, and I really believe it should be. Why? Because I
come from a bygone era. Mine were the delightful, daredevil days of
childhood adventure. It was a time when bravery meant
everything, when on the backs of our dismal report cards we proudly
scrawled our own tally sheets, which we defiantly titled:
"Emergancy Room Vizits"
That may sound scary, but somehow our wounds were
always minor-league--a few stitches here and there, maybe a small
fracture, or perhaps an animal bite after watching an especially
touching episode of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. You see,
kids of my generation were masters of managing daunting odds and
thrilling risks... taking it way over the edge yet surviving
unscathed, sort of like we were tied to bungee cords. Once we grew up
and started playing around on Wall Street, though... not so much.
A
FAMILY PORTRAIT
My family was typical back in the day when suntans
were healthful, trains had cabooses, and hands had callouses. We were
four brothers who sometimes picked on our little sister (until she
learned to land a well-placed kick), often bickered, yet always hung
out together. Four boys within five years--there was always one of
us old enough to dream up crazy stunts, and at the lower echelons,
one of us naive enough to try 'em. Throw some buddies into the mix,
add balmy summertime, and we built fun to levels that would give
Super Mario serious nosebleed.
Willy, Sammy, Quincy, and I--Stevie--bonded by
adventure, affection, triumph, and hand-me-downs. Among us were the
nerdy, athletic, artistic, and brash. We were as different as oil and
ethics. But through time our brotherly friendship only deepened
despite the mismatch.
Outweighing our distinctions were our common
fantasies: to lasso stampeding cattle on a desolate plain; swing
through the jungle rescuing Jane; or to lead a fierce charge, sword
raised high, sporting the helmet, breastplate, and goatee of a
conquistador.
We each had our pipedream preferences, though, and
my deepest yearning was for cunning and valor--the cunning and valor
of a conquistador!
Our mom allowed just the right range of freedom,
and our dad delivered just the right dose of discipline. We each
experienced our own little "Age of Exploration," pushing the
boundaries of our pedal-powered universe, while learning that the
laws of both gravity and society deserved respect.
The word "idyllic" was surely conceived in my
time, and the neighborhoods we roamed were Norman Rockwell's
inspiration. Children feared God, teachers, and getting caught,
because we lived in a time of consequences. In our free-range boyhood
we were only boisterous at the level of "rowdy" (no real
consequences) or perhaps at the worst: "unruly" (real
consequences).
Now, as I sit quietly gold-mining memories,
splendid stories well up like an inner Fountain of Youth. Here, on
these pages, I'll thrill you with these epic sagas. And I
absolutely guarantee they might actually be true. This is despite the
decades gone by and the many "fish stories" that somehow slipped
out before my largely successful therapy. Since I now understand the
error of embellishment, I solemnly swear that in what you are about
to read, any exaggerations are 110% unintentional.
PARENTAL
PERSPECTIVES
Before we go burrowing through the bygone, though,
let's poke our heads up and take a peek at some of today's
child-rearing. Stone by stone, well-meaning folks may end up building
a fortress of protection around their kids. Fortune, though, favors
the bold! I think kids are born knowing this. Feeling trapped,
they sometimes go bouncing off the walls simply because the walls are
there.
And though I hate to admit it, I at one time began
laying the foundation for my own little "parent trap." Yes, when
I first learned I was to be a father, I resolved that my child would
never perform the free-ranging, hair-raising exploits of my
rousing youth. I guess that, starting a family late in life, I had
succumbed to a middle-aged mindset. But now I'm torn between the
cocoon-free parenting of the courageous past and the seeming safety
of the structured, play-dated present.
My wife, however... she's firmly rooted in
today. Parenting magazines litter our mailbox, while new-age
newsletters choke our inbox. And she'll have none of my
adventure-packed childhood nostalgia, coolly dismissing it with that
little snort of hers that she knows very well annoys me so much. I'm
not saying she's the overprotective hovering type, but most women,
when they have their first child, go shopping for a minivan. My wife
bought a helicopter. "It's my responsibility as a mom,"
she declared.
I'm also not suggesting my wife is a
trend-setter, but the FAA recently built a control tower next to our
neighborhood playground.
Well actually, my wife bought not just one, but
"his and her" helicopters... and with a third as backup just in
case. I of course objected--figuring that was just a teeny tiny
little bit overprotective in the shocking extreme! But I knew
my wife was on to something, even if somewhat misguided, so I told
her I was going to take back my helicopter, and, in a far more
rational and adventurous decision, go get a tank for me and my new
little dude to tool around in across the "back forty."
To that idea she of course replied: "Yeah, when
pigs learn to pole vault!" (She loves saying that.)
Proud of my quick thinking, I blitzed her with:
"Hey, we'll be in a tank. How can you get any safer than
that?" You see, I've learned that with my wife, safety
always trumps pole-vaulting pigs--it's something deep
within the mother instinct, I think--so I took full advantage to try
to get my tank.
Unfortunately, I should have never asked: "How
can you get any safer?" My wife can always think of
something safer!
Do you realize how much it costs to have a child
seat installed in a tank? Turns out that the old WW II surplus model
I was going to buy doesn't have the brackets to fit today's car
seats. Too soon it looked like my dream of starting my boy out in
life with a healthy dose of manly manliness in the "back forty"
was wafting out the window like a bad breaking of wind. That is,
until the dealer down the street told me that the new M1 Abrams tanks
built for basic training come with child seats standard. This new
modern army is incredible in more ways than one!
THE
FUN BEGINS
But rather than further lament the times of today,
I'd rather pine about "back in the day." Back in the day when
"safety" was the name of a school drill that had us crouching
under our desks to practice hiding from real danger: the
menace of nuclear war. This gave us a deep sense of perspective. And
so we stared down with supreme confidence far lesser perils posed by
the many wonders of nature--marvels like high speed, rock-hardness,
great height, and recklessness.
When I look around today I see that we were
different back then both in bravery and in body. There was much less
obesity in my day. Well of course! We were bleeding far too often
to gain serious weight. It's also true that in flipping, flying
bike wrecks we skimmed flesh from our bare arms and legs, sometimes
leaving long streaks along the pavement, the more impressive of which
we paced off for bragging rights.
And of course any potential bragging right
instantly became the most coveted prize in our simmering sibling
rivalry. You can imagine the brouhaha that erupted the time I was
giving Willy a ride on my handlebars at blazing speed, wiped out
while trying to "pop a wheelie," then claimed that I could
combine the red stripes from both myself and my poor passenger to
claim the new family record. That, however, went over like a screen
door on a submarine.
"Eight feet plus six feet... lessee, that's
eleven feet," proclaimed Quincy after striding along the red
stripes. "I did nine feet last week, so I still got ya beat."
"Ya don't add 'em, you idiot, ya
hafta multiply 'em," scolded Sammy, who was ahead of the
rest of us in school. "But it doesn't matter, because Stevie
cheated when he pushed Willy along the road three extra feet."
Willy, still lying on the pavement, spun his head
toward me, wide-eyed, lip starting to quiver. "He did?
WAAAAH! I'm tellin'!"
"Shut up, ya sissy, don'tcha wanna set the
record?"
"I think we should have a vote on whether it's
a record," Sammy declared, acting all grown-up-like. "Maybe even
a trial."
Now I had my opening. They didn't know who they
were messin' with when it came to legal proceedings. My second-most
favorite TV show, right after Zorro, was the courtroom drama
Perry Mason. Unflinching in the face of my brothers'
protests, I launched a blistering harangue on the merits of my case
that would have sent Perry Mason reeling, should he somehow have the
gumption to battle me in open court. With the odds stacked
three-to-one against me, (That weasely little Willy would rather
tattle than set records), I steeled myself for a grueling
trial, and if needed, endless appeals.
A smack upside my head from Sammy, though, and the
case was quickly decided.
You know, when I think about my eloquence at such
a young age, I have to say I believe that kids' brains were
livelier back then too. Those bursts of exercise really got the ol'
heart thumping, and that--along with our constantly regenerating
supply of peppy red blood cells--turned our minds into oxygen-fueled
masters of the magnificent. We turned that cleverness into good times
and glory vivid to this day.
Many of my best memories involve fireworks... and
darn near all of my worst.
The rest of these recollections entail bikes, a
rather hazardous vehicle for our hot-rod imaginations. Recognizing
the sensitivities of today, I'll forget the firecracker fiascos and
tell you grand-but-true tales of audacious packs of kids on bikes. We
banged hard against the boundary between exciting and emergency room,
always bouncing back on our feet, ready again to ride hard. And I'm
not talking about the fancy trick-bikes of today's stunt
performers, but clumsy Schwinn Roadmasters with crumpled fenders,
playing-cards rattling in spokes.
I guess the first thing you
should know is that I grew up in an age of grand imaginations and
limitless horizons. We were Tyrannosaurs riding across that
colossally free, unfettered era before the asteroid of bike helmets.
Propelled by a primal urge for speed, we pumped
harder and faster, leaning back and shaking our heads through the
heavenly thrill of wind in our hair. This was the elixir of an
exciting childhood. Science had yet to figure it out, but we now know
that those two-wheeled sprees released great dollops of dopamine deep
in the pleasure centers of our unsuspecting brains. This splendid
revelation means I can take comfort in knowing that nothing back then
was actually my fault... none of the injuries, none of the lateness
for dinner, none of the bicycle "streaking."
...Hey, have you ever built a bike ramp? A truly
massive bike ramp? I mean a big, beautiful, Taj Mahal bike
ramp? Well, we did. I have proof of our greatness in the frightening
home movies where we can still be seen riding in all of our
glory--blurred legs flailing furiously for that grandiose plywood
gradient. Shrieks of joy as we rocketed straight for several seconds
of pure adrenaline-amped, mighty-ramped weightless Wheeee! And
the wind in our hair... always the wind in our hair. Oh, how we long
for the days we had hair.
But alas, I've watched dozens of these
flickering family features and have no idea how they ended, due to my
mom's skillful editing. I'm not sure why I can't remember the
outcome, but when we watch those old movies my wife keeps muttering
something about concussions. (OK, I'll concede your point on bike
helmets.)
I have my suspicions about how those lofty
leg-powered launchings ended though, because we were smart, but we
were merely street smart. Understanding the complex laws of physics,
like: "What goes up..." (and whatever comes after that part)
required book learning, and of that we were in abundant short-supply.
Street smarts made us creative, though, and
especially fluent in wise-cracks. This gave us surprising skill in
making up the most astonishing names for our bike-ramp masterpieces.
I have proof because I saved many of the scrap-board signs we nailed
to their soaring bell towers.
So that the designations would capture their most
devastating impacts, we never ever named ramps until they were
tested by our fearless, witless pal, "Braveman Billy." After that
first eye-popping calamity we would all solemnly huddle around poor,
prone Billy and assess the damage. Names ranged from the rather
mundane "Hair Raiser," to the more menacing "Bone Crusher,"
to the most utterly terrifying of all, the very sound of which
knotted the stomach of any boy... well I won't repeat the name
here, but I'll tell you this: I could re-use that sign at
Christmastime for a Tchaikovsky ballet.
Like I said, when we gingerly gathered around a
splayed-out Billy it was an almost reverent occasion--even for him,
the sacrificial lamb--and one time we found poor ol' Billy praying
furiously for divine guidance... not for assistance in naming the
ramp, mind you, but in crafting a parent-appeasing explanation for
his missing little finger.
GOING
DOWNHILL FAST
Our bike ramps provided one wonder of nature:
great height. But there were those others to enjoy. And the pivot
point in bike-riding lore; the moment when everything changed; the
absolute instant against which everything else from there on out was
measured (literally) was when some glorious genius invented the bike
speedometer.
No longer were the results of our struggles
subject to mere conjecture based on the length of skid marks. From
the TV show Columbo we knew that police measured skid marks to
estimate speed at crash scenes. But we were always a bit suspicious
of cops and their methods since the time when nerdy Willy was nearly
arrested for building an atomic bomb as a 5th-grade
science project. (Things were way more laid back, back then). With
the speedometer we finally had a way to track our steady progress
toward the extreme. And the Guinness Book of World Records set
for us lofty goals.
Knowing our exact speed was vital in forecasting
the flight path off our ramps--that much we knew from imitating the
exploits of our oft-mangled hero, Evel Knievel. Speedometers also
gave us actual data in bragging to buddies about our top speed
down "Henrietta's Hill." That was the code name we used in
front of parents when discussing Skeleton Mountain and our
teeth-gritting feats of daring down its precipitous Deadman's
Curves--a writhing black slash of asphalt snaking violently from the
craggy heights. And the serpent beckoned. Oh, how it beckoned!
As I recall, at the fastest I ever roared down
Deadman's Curves, even my finely tuned bike was a bit jittery. But
contrary to what you would think, it was actually harder to maintain
control at sub-sonic velocities. And I swear I once pulled so many Gs
slinging 'round those bends that I briefly blacked out. What we
really needed for safety gear was a G suit. But our daring,
unrestrained, was vast and free.
Now, in my mind's treasure chest, memories of
Deadman's Curves lie as if carefully pressed between pages of the
old family Bible, and I unpack them with veneration. This was
the site of both teeth-gritting bravery and teeth-chattering terror.
But we, the few, knew no fear.
If speed is a demon then on Deadman's Curves the
Devil himself spat our dust.
The chroniclers of history will say we cheated
death, but on those plunging slopes there was no need to cheat
it--those fearsome claws could never pierce our chainmail of
courage. To the waiting Grim Reaper we screamed furious defiance atop
the roar past our ears of howling gales--tires shrieking, squealing,
smoking under the full strain of leg muscles bulging and gravity
boosting. Against our staunch bravery Death was struck impotent--teeth
in a chatter, fear through its heart like a dagger, skittering from
the arc of our trajectory as a wild-eyed rabbit one breath beyond the
gleaming, dripping fangs of a wolf.
FIRM
FOUNDATIONS
Okay... maybe you caught me in a bit of
exaggeration there. I guess that thinking of the old days brings back
the old ways. But the truth is that fearlessness forms a firm
foundation. And now, when I need to sort through life's many
nerve-wracking options, I sometimes go sit quietly on a smooth, solid
rock overlooking those curves.
As I ponder life's mysteries upon that ageless
boulder, palms-up and cross-legged on granite that is firm and
unyielding as I pray to be, clarity comes rushing in like a zephyr
from the Age of Enlightenment. In eager anticipation I await answers
in the echoes from eternity, seeking resolution from the wisdom of
the ancients. Unfortunately, though, I have to get up because my
butt hurts.
THE
BOSS OF BIKE STUNTS
But seriously, folks; on that boulder I plan ahead
and I also think back... way back... back to my youngest years and to
a time when, soon after we were freed from training wheels, we got to
squabbling over who was "The Boss of Bike Stunts." Willy said he
could ride for a whole block "no-hands." Sammy upped the ante,
bragging he could put his feet up on his handlebars. Not to be
outdone, I blurted that I could cross the icy torrents thundering
down Butcher Creek Canyon while riding a line of 2 x 4s spanning
pilings from the bridge swept away in the last raging flood.
Before I could mutter "not really," my
brothers double-dog-dared me.
Worse still, they trumpeted my death-defying claim
throughout the neighborhood, and soon I had my budding honor to
defend against the taunts of all.
For weeks those turncoats studied the design and
construction of the Golden Gate, Mackinaw, and Brooklyn Bridges.
These were excellent scale-models of what they aimed to build for me
to cross--though my ride would be only one 2 x 4 wide. My aim was
much simpler: continued existence on this earth.
However, that conniving crew had to somehow come
up with a big bunch of 2 x 4s in order to actually construct the
harrowing challenge of their wicked dreams. In front of their dads,
my BFBs (brothers and former buddies) casually mentioned how
educational it would be to build a little bridge across Rita's
Rivulet, and they were set.
After much planning and nailing by my BFBs, the
moment of my gut-wrenching ride arrived like an overeager undertaker.
For weeks the news had been trumpeted far and wide, and I was the
hottest ticket in town. The Las Vegas odds-makers had it two-to-one
against me, and I don't doubt that my BFBs laid a nickel or two
against me.
Happily though, those pathetic little "engineers"
couldn't actually build anything across a treacherous chasm, so
they settled for laying ten 2 x 4s end-to-end on a crushed-gravel
road. Unhappily, edgewise.
Before a vast sweep of spectators I walked my bike
toward my ordeal, stumbling and staggering, wearing only gym shorts
as so cruelly demanded. Stopping, I drooped my head, leaned hard on
my handlebars, and wavered, drawing a deep breath and making like I
was about to pass out. But then I jerked up straight and tall,
sweeping my hand in a dramatic arc from waist to high overhead.
Flicking my wrist at the top, I roared in remarkable baritone: "I,
Conquistador!"
Across the crowd, faces spun toward one another,
while murmurs rose, reporters scribbled, and in the dim distance,
bobbing heads of onlookers rose and fell like Whac-a-Moles.
I gulped hard and mounted that first spindly beam,
then peddled for dear life, figuring the faster I flew the less time
I'd have to take a great fall. But I resolved to do more than just
not fall... so much more! Exhibiting style and control beyond belief,
I would make my brothers eat their double-dog-dare like a
bowlful of Kibbles 'n Bits.
I have to admit that in the years since my
spectacular feat, I've learned of a few other times in history when
power, poise, and valor had blossomed into such an art-form. But at
the time, I felt certain I was first.
Rocketing down that rail I was righteous, able by
the third board to go "no-hands" for a split-second. On the fifth
I slung my feet to my handlebars--just for a moment. Soon my passion
for performance melded time and motion until I was floating on fluid,
velvety bliss. I snapped a salute to the dignitaries, then stood on
my seat, pumping my fists to the billowing sky, thumping my chest and
bellowing in Tarzan tremolo.
My BFBs rued their choice of a gritty gravel road
as their slack jaws crashed right to it. Into those gaping maws I
was shoveling bucket-loads of Fido's favorite!
But on the final plank I was smacked by rude
reality. A brace broke and the 2 x 4 began to teeter. Fear twisting
across my face, I pitched and rolled like riding a bronco. While the
womenfolk averted their eyes, gloating BFBs spewed laughter and
delight, imagining the taunts and highly animated "re-enactments"
that would be forever theirs. But just when it looked like all hope
was lost; when the howls had reached a fever pitch; when it seemed
certain I would "biff" in a most shameful manner... I biffed in a
really shameful manner.
But I didn't hit hard, mind you, I hit
violently! It wasn't all bad though, because, making the
best of a bad situation, I had the incredible presence of mind to
step on a scale before my parents hauled me off to the emergency
room. Sure enough, my weight had swelled by four pounds from embedded
gravel. And that, my friends, is a record unbroken by anyone
to this day! If the Guinness Book had an entry for the feat,
I'd be quite famous, not needing to hawk stories of my childhood
for a few extra bucks.
...Stories that I absolutely guarantee might veer
more toward veracity as you plunder on through my treasure chest of
remembrance.
NEW
FRONTIERS
For us four siblings, childhood, brotherhood, and
neighborhood each piled on to produce constant adventure, and every
new frontier of youth brought us high hopes of more. Each night as we
lay snuggled-in, dramatic dreams foretold our future. And our eyes
always opened to a rose-tinted day. Then when our feet felt the floor
we raced for those bikes, dashing between our deftly blocking mom and
her table stacked with steaming French toast, which was always better
cold anyways.
But far from being one-dimensional, our lives were
brightened by much more than brawn. Those bike ramps we built took
vast planning. And we were bold planners despite our unprotected
heads; that's how we got to the moon. Even our mom was a first-rate
planner; that's how she got the beehive hairdo, which actually took
extensive preparation.
...Hey, while we're on the topic of adults and
planning, I'll tell you this: I'm convinced that bike
speedometers were simply Phase 1 of a sinister 2-stage corporate
money-making plot. I can imagine the meeting where some clever
marketers first presented their devious idea to The Big Cheese:
"We'll come out with bike speedometers and make a tidy little sum
because kids will pester their folks mercilessly, to see how fast
they can go. But the Really Big Bucks will come a few years from now
when we aim straight for the parents and unleash upon the market...
bike helmets!"
Not all was fun and games, though, even in our
idyllic little world. Bikes brought us liberty, yet on those wheels
we brothers discovered early that freedom, of course, isn't free.
This wisdom came unexpectedly when our dream of crossing Butcher
Creek Canyon was finally realized after a few years, although on a
highway bridge across town. Venturing to the other side we ended up
in a neighborhood not our own. Here we discovered that Quincy's
skin was a shade darker than the others of us, a seemingly obvious
fact that had gone un-noticed. We heard some bad words that day, and
took a few falls, but when it was done, the other side of town had
learned a hard lesson on what it means to stand shoulder-to-shoulder.
Quincy, it turns out, was adopted. After this
fascinating discovery we peppered our folks with questions, but
beyond his Hispanic heritage they knew little of his background,
nothing of his parents. We simply shrugged and got on with childhood,
though with Quincy now cloaked in an aura of mystery--perhaps of
noble birth, or even a descendant of conquistadors.
With a tinge of jealousy, I for some time
afterward rode my bike shouting: "I Conquistador" across the
sweeping panoramas of my neighborhood. I was on a quest... a mission
to prove myself worthy. "Conquering" was my ultimate fantasy,
though mostly what it got me was more of those crimson bragging
rights. One day, though, I knew my time would come. I would be called
to serve. I would not fall again!
FIRE
AND ICE
But alas, bikes weren't the only perilous
presents Dad so dubiously delivered each Christmas.
Each of us had a Daisy Red Ryder and we shot them
completely at random--and sometimes at Randy. But that's not
nearly as bad as it sounds because Randy was fast. He could
usually dodge a BB... not always a direct-fired BB, unfortunately,
but a ricocheted BB was no match for his lightning reflexes. That
scene in "A Christmas Story" where a 1950s Ralphie is
struck in the eye by a bouncing BB is pure fantasy, made up by young
Hollywood writers who simply were not around before everything
changed.
A 1950's boy could definitely dodge a
ricochet, and even we in the '70s found through frequent, often
surprise experiments that we could sometimes accomplish the amazing
feat. It wasn't until Pong begat Space Invaders begat
Donkey Kong begat Mario Bros. begat Need for
Speed that youths slowed way, way down. Now kids simply
fantasize about what we used to actually do, and the world is a much
better place for that.
Okay... I guess you caught me beefing-up my bio
again with those BB-gun stories, but this time I claim entrapment by
the English language. I was on a literary high, and the alliteration
of: "Red Ryder ...at random ...at Randy" held such allure. I
liked it a lot! Soon I got into all that quick-reflexes stuff and
then, well, I just kept going.
We would never have shot BBs at random, or
especially at Randy. That would have gone beyond rowdy or even
unruly; it would have been outright unethical, and it wasn't until
we grew up and got to Wall Street that we... Well, never mind about
that!
Icicles, however, are another story entirely from
BBs. Those sparkling spear-points attacked with no help from humans.
It's like they had a mind of their own, assaulting from above,
where no rambunctious lad scanning the ground for the best
gravel-filled snowball materiel was prone to look. Icicles are akin
to a hunter sitting in a tree-stand, knowing that deer in millions of
years of evolution have learned to not expect danger from above. Like
a hunter's arrow, icicles would rain down and pin our coat to our
shoulder or impale a foot, but never actually killing anyone outright
despite the claims of Ralphie's mom.
With global warming, the kids of tomorrow won't
have to worry so much about icicles, now will they? And that's what
it's all about today isn't it: removing all sources of worry and
every tiny tidbit of emotional distress. Yes, things are quite
different now mentally as well as physically. When I was a kid,
people for instance weren't nearly so worried about teasing,
because we were far more robust. Back then kids picked on others who
seemed weird, clumsy, or dim-witted. Today's psychologists say it
causes permanent damage, and my wife is of the same mind. But I don't
see what the fuss over nasty name-calling is all about... after
several decades in therapy it has ceased to affect me.
THE
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
Hey, wanna hear some of those firecracker fiascos?
(Don't tell my wife.)
Well, you're gonna have to anyways, otherwise
you'd never satisfy your curiosity about my Grand Conquistadorial
Triumph. It's the climax of my story--which, I have to admit,
tails off a bit after that. It also becomes more factual, though I
doubt the two are related. So here goes:
M-80s; Roman candles; cherry bombs; bottle
rockets; Black Cats; aerial spinners; sparklers; poppers; snaps;
smoke bombs. As I recall, this is the order in which these
yearnings appeared on our 4th of July wish list--a list
never shared with our moms or our tattletale sisters, and
written largely by our dads. Numerous erasures and re-positionings
were the result of lively debates among us boys on the merits of
each. Some, like M-80s, existed only in the urban legends of
pre-adolescence. Since we could only imagine their
awesomeness, those of us with the most vivid imaginations (Yours
Truly) usually won out. Of course we were never allowed to actually
touch the pyrotechnic baubles beckoning from the stratosphere of
our desire. We were only allowed to handle the humdrum.
But I digress. This isn't a story about our
personal collections. Rather, it's about my Grand Conquistadorial
Triumph, a heroic tale of me saving the world! (Oh, really? Well,
just wait and see.)
One memorable 4th of July, after a day
filled with family reunion and a stomach stuffed with hotdogs and
root beer, we followed up with a trip to the evening festivities.
There we enjoyed a rousing concert by the U.S. Navy Band, followed by
a long, long, long wait for the fireworks.
After about 10 minutes of: "Ooooohs" and:
"Aaaaaahs," the crowd erupted in horror as one of the launch
tubes fell over and sent a flaming ball straight toward the crowd. In
terror, a thousand minds simultaneously seized on the same questions:
"What shall we do? Who will save the day? Is there a conquistador
among us?"
The blazing menace traced a smoking arc right
toward me. Well, actually it first seemed to be coming at me, but I
quickly realized it was heading toward a young mother cradling her
baby 10 feet to my left. With lightning reflexes, and at no time
considering my personal safety, I launched through the air and caught
that ball of fury in my baseball mitt, which I wore almost all the
time. To this day I can still see that spectacular event as though it
was yesterday, though in super slow-motion.
Upon my stunning performance of that daredevil
deed of my dreams, the crowd hoisted me high, carrying me toward the
town square. I held my flaming leather like I was the Statue of
Liberty and crowed: "I, Conquistador! I, Conquistador! I
Conquistador!" to the rousing response of my fans: "You,
Conquistador! You, Conquistador! You, Conquistador!"
These days you can even look it up online and
verify the veracity of my account. It's all right there in the bio
of my Facebook page.
But "saving the world?" you ask, definitely
doubtful of my claim. Yes, certainly! You see, it turns out that the
infant I so gallantly saved was a young Jennifer Lopez, without whom
we would have never had...
OK, so you got me again... I didn't save the
world.
ALL'S
WELL THAT ENDS WELL
All-in-all, looking back, our childhood antics
didn't hurt our neighborhood crew a bit in our adult lives. Dougie
became a doctor, Terry took up teaching, and Emilio calculated
engineering to be his life's endeavor. Willy went into welding,
Sammy and I slid into stock-brokering, and Kenny moved easily into
kinesiology. Jack considered his options, then went to Oregon, bought
a big axe, and became a storied lumberman. But the only deep
disappointment is Billy, who stopped being a braveman.
It was "Disaster-boy Dean," though, whom I
lost track of years ago. That is, until recently, when that Allstate
"Mayhem" commercial came on TV. I jumped up and yelled to my
wife: "Hey look! It's my ol' pal Dean Winters! How many years
since we've seen him?!?" (Note to self: Don't ever again
bring up "Disaster-boy" Dean Winters.)
Marty, I hate to admit, never did amount to much.
But that's definitely not the fault of our boyhood follies. Marty,
you see, was motivated to succeed, but not enough to actually do
anything about it.
So how about the rest of the old crew? Well,
Olivia had the foresight to become an optometrist, while Susie sailed
through life as a seamstress (Yes, we eventually discovered girls).
Hesitant Henrietta became a highway engineer, and Deadman's Curves
were never the same. But she seemed so much happier in childbearing
years as a helicopter pilot. Rita earned her wages with a
water-management agency... I don't recall the job, but it started
with "R."
One in our troop had a minor brush with the law in
his late teens due to prejudice of the day, but it proved no
hindrance to eventual success. Variously viewed as a victim or
villain, a vindicated Vinnie vaulted to the vertex of virtuoso
violinists.
Zach monkeyed around as a zookeeper, but then
found a black mask, bought a sword, and rose to swashbuckling fame in
a western TV show and more recently, a Hollywood movie.
Quincy, however, never did find a job. We helped
him financially, because with his name it was certainly not his
fault. His prospects brightened, though, from the recent popularity
of the exotic South American grain quinoa. After a tremendous
send-off party we wished him well as he ventured off to seek his
destiny in the remotest mountains of Bolivia where the grain is
grown--and where he promptly became an accountant. Yeah, I know, but
you see... when Quincy arrived in Bolivia he discovered his real
parents living there, who had named him Andre before giving him up
for adoption.
Not of noble birth, it turns out, but Andre is, in
fact, of the conquistadors. This finally brought me a tie to them
too.
FACT
AND FABLE
I've tried to keep that conquistador spirit as
my old memories--now buried under the weight of new ones--have
compressed and morphed, upwelling as black-gold ink onto these pages.
Still, there were some gaps in my recollection, and I've tried to
fill them in for you with what might have been true.
And so now here we are, you and I--we've fondly
explored each nook of my treasure chest. Yet as you consider this
candid account of brothers and bravado, you may search for meaning in
the madness, for some sense of moral to the story. For a long time so
did I. But recently I strode out upon that primeval granite above
Deadman's Curves, cushion in hand. There, facing the eastern glow,
my meditation was an homage to eternity. Hallowed voices from history
sighed through the trees--murmurs barely discerned as I released
myself to the ages. Like an apparition, wisdom wafted in with the
zephyr and...
...Okay, okay! There were no mystic voices! There
was no magic zephyr. And the only apparition was the bulk of this
fable. Except for Andre. He really did strike out for Bolivia. He did
find his real parents there. And conquistadors do shine
magnificence from back in his lineage.
HELICOPTER
DOWN!
So if you're looking for a moral, well I guess
this is it: The account of Andre's enlightenment is the zephyr; his
discoveries clear proof: Life takes unexpected upturns for those who
gallantly ride down fear and stride out seeking adventure.
It's how Columbus got to America. It's how
Americans got to the moon. And kids need that.
To boldly go, they must first learn to be bold.
Copyright 2014
Steven D. Overholt
All rights reserved
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