I grew up with boys; a big brother, boy cousins, boy neighbors. It’s no wonder I was a tomboy. Sure, I liked to dress up in flouncy dresses every now and again, but my bliss was wearing pants, hair pulled up in two ponytails, dirt caked beneath my fingernails. It was imperative, for all womankind, that I not only keep up with the boys, but outdo them from time to time.
Inspired by Evel Knievel, one afternoon we set out to perform our own spectacular stunt—jump a John Deere tractor over railroad tracks! After building the ramp, Garth, Blaine, and I piled on the tractor seat, leaned forward, and pressed down hard on the gas. We chugged up, up, up. At the top, the tractor faltered, then tipped over the lip of the wood, landing squarely in the middle of the tracks. Stunned to have failed, we sat on the tractor, moping. That’s when we hear it, Chugga! Chugga! Chugga! A train was coming down the tracks! We screamed for Grandpa Riley from the tractor, clinging to one another like baby monkeys. Grandpa emerged from his office, nonplussed. He sauntered over, stood by the tracks and said, “Well, stand up.” Shocked to not find our bodies roped to the tractor like victims in a Dudley Do-Right cartoon, we got up and shuffled to safety. We waited for the train to speed past, but it never did. In fact, that track was never used, making our terror all the more hilarious.
Being the youngest, Blaine and I were often the victims in these schemes. Filed in the category of ‘Gullible!’was the time Garth and the neighbor kid, Burke, told Blaine and I that we were in big trouble. To keep from being spanked, we had to strip down to our skivvies, hold hands, and skip around the block. As we stripped down in the front yard, they coached us. The most important part was to smile and wave at every passing car. Scared, cold, confused, but also determined not to get in trouble, we did as they said. We set off, skipping, smiling, waving, swinging our arms back and forth. As we turned the corner of the block, Grandma screeched to the curb in her Mercedes. She tugged us inside and drove us back to the house. Our convincing smiles and parade-ready waves hadn’t been enough. We were in serious trouble. Once dressed, our parents asked, “Where the hell did this idea come from?” We pointed at Garth and Burke. Grandma handed us banana popsicles, which we ate slowly while watching the older kids get in super-sized trouble.
I’d like to say we learned a lesson deeper than not to believe Garth and Burke, maybe to be kinder to others than they’d been to us. But, naw. When Blaine’s little brother, Kyle, was old enough to walk, we initiated him into the group by convincing him to eat dog poop off a cracker.
Two boy cousins, an older brother, neighbor boys; when I was in first grade, they surrounded me; asked if I knew how to ride a bike without training wheels. Or did I still ride like a baby? Something about their tone spoke to the bits of me that are most competitive. I laughed, then pointed at the bike leaning against the lamppost. “I know how to ride a ten-speed,” I crowed. It was a complete lie, of course. I couldn’t even manage a bike with training wheels.
“Okay, so show us,” they demanded. I walked the bike up the tall hill that led to Manitou Park. At the top, I put down the kickstand and watched in amazement as their faces went from surprised to fearful to pure, unadulterated respect. That heady feeling of power was like a drug. They’d never do this, which meant I must! I managed to balance on the bike seat and grip the handlebars, then point the front wheel down. I whizzed over the sidewalk, flying down the steep hill, in awe of myself. How the heck was I doing this? I hit a rock and flew off of the bike.
Next thing I knew, I was being carried in the arms of a stranger to Grandma’s. I was driven to the hospital where they treated me for a broken left arm, goose egg on my forehead, concussion, and scraped nose. Once bandaged, they separated me from my mother and asked how my injuries had occurred. Ashamed, but also kind of proud, I explained about the bike and the stupid boys, and stupider me. They watched with concern, took notes, and soon after, I was reunited with my mom. This folks, was in the early 1970s. Child abuse and screening for it were not the norm in hospitals. It was actually, looking back, pretty amazing they took those steps. Amazing in a good way.
The next day I was slated to go to Danny Fiore’s birthday party. Like a miniature David Cassidy, I had such a mad crush on that boy, his long sandy blond hair, gap-toothed smile, and all. Mom and Mike talked about whether or not I should be allowed to attend. I changed into my best clothes, a full-length yellow and white dress that I’d gotten for Easter and pled my case. Apprehensive, they gave in and drove me to Danny’s. Mike walked me up to the porch. He told me if Danny made fun of how I looked, he would get a lecture. The door opened and Danny stood at the threshold wearing a white ruffle-collared shirt and brown Toughskins, his jaw slack. Mike held his breath as I handed Danny his present. Never breaking his gaze, he said, “Oh, Jennifer! You’ve never looked more beautiful.”
Mike let go of my hand and I followed Danny inside, where I won the biggest prize at the party for guessing the number of jellybeans in a giant jar. I’ll never know if Danny’s mother had a hand in my big victory, but it was perfect, absolutely perfect.
Hey, found your blog via Twitter. Not disappointed. Good stuff.
Glad you enjoyed the read. Trying to spread a little joy! :)