Flashback Friday #47

Don't try this at home.

A warm welcome back to those of you who are still reading, or those whom I haven't put to sleep.I was talking to my wife recently and told her of a horse that I was afraid of when I was a child. "With some of the things that you did as a child, I'm surprised that you were afraid of anything." she replied. With that statement, I got to thinking about some of the truly dangerous things I did as a child, and lived through to tell future generations.

I am, and probably will always be a redneck. Social grace is something that I just don't have. With that statement comes the realization that most of the "accidents" that I witnessed, were prefaced with the phrase "Hey, watch this". Seeing the ridicule heaped upon the injured kid laying on the ground, showing off was something I didn't do (very much of). Only when there was a fairly large number of us kids present ("Oh look, Aunt Shelly and her kids just pulled in the driveway")

One of the things I did with Aunt Shelly's kids was jumping off of things. They were all wiry, lanky, and athletic. Me, not so much. But they always found a way to coax me into whatever dangerous pastime they were engaging in.

One thing we jumped off of was barn supports. Those are the zigzag beams that run up the walls of a barn to stabilize it. The object as to shinny up as high as you could go, and then jump off the wall into the hay below. I couldn't get up very far. My cousins, on the other hand, were like the Flying Zamboni brothers in the Ringling Brothers circus. When you are almost at the rafters, you are too high. They would egg me on to go higher, but I knew my limitations.

Our lower roof was a different situation. I could jump off of it, without thinking twice. There was no hay to land in, only the ground beneath us. We would all grab a towel, tie it around our neck, and become superheroes. The main problem with this was that normally 8 out of 10 times that I would jump off the roof, I would tear out the seat of my pants. Mom was forever mending my britches. I don't think I ever told her how the got torn.

My uncle owned a junkyard, and you know how inviting that was to play in. My brother and one of his friend who lived down from my uncle were always swinging on the scrap boom (this is the cable with a hook on it that was suspended from a crane that was used to pick up junk cars). I don't think anyone knew they were doing this. Once I was watching them, and when they left, I tried it. The key to boom swinging is knowing when to let go. If you don't let go on the outward swing, and jump, you will land in the pile of scrap metal like I did. I came in crying, and bloody from the numerous scrapes and cuts I received. "How did you get so messed up?" my uncle asked. "I was swinging on the boom.", I replied. "Swinging on the boom?!?!" he exclaimed. Where in the word did you get a crazy idea like that? The glare I got from my brother told me I had better keep my mouth shut(which I did in between sobs.).

Evel Knievel was one of our childhood idols. We were always trying to pop wheelies and jump things with our bikes. Sir Gattabout was great at popping wheelies. He could keep one tire in the air for almost eternity. Whenever I would try, the bike would kick out from under me. We also did the trick riding where you ride with no hands or you stand upon the seat while the bike was moving. Bike racing was big too. There was a large hill nearby and I would come flying down that hill, which is OK, as long as you keep your feet on the pedals. When your foot slips off the pedal, and into the front spokes, you stop fast, and you stop NOW. The nice lady at the bottom of the hill helped sooth my pain by putting iodine or Mercurochrome,( I forget which) on all my scrapes. She might as well put turpentine on them. Burn baby burn.

I have well documented my lack of swimming abilities and being near a creek daily. I never said I was a rocket scientist.In reading back through my Flashback Friday posts, I came across several times where I could have been killed. Since you are reading this, you know I lived through my childhood. Truth sometimes is weirder than fiction. In Flashback Friday #4, I chronicled some of the things that did scare me.