Cake Thief

Before we started having my birthday parties at the park, we had a few at my grandmother's house.  She lived across the street from us, and had the biggest yard in the neighborhood.  We would play in the yard with our friends.  We played such classics as tag, hide and seek, and drop the clothes pin into the gallon milk jug.  One time after a rousing game of clothes pin dropping it was time for the cake.  We all piled into the kitchen.  Kevin and I pushed each other, each trying to get the best position for candle blowing.  I looked down and to my dismay a corner of the cake was gone.  What horror!  Who could be the dastardly cake thief, the crusher of frosted dreams?!  It was none other than my uncle.  My mother's mood turned instantly to rage.  The look on her face could have instantly killed a small goat.  We proceeded with the festivities and most has been lost to the annuals of time.  Except I still wait for the time when I will exact my revenge, the day when I will have my corner of his cake.

Ride, Cowboy, Ride

At one time in my life we owned a horse.  It was a great horse.  Her name was Ginger and my dad acquired her by trading a horse named Lucifer and an old truck.  I'm not sure how a trade like this comes to be.  It just amazes me that some one would think, "I'll trade this sweet horse for a devil horse and an old truck."  On one of my birthdays it was decided that all of the kids could ride Ginger around the riding ring.  There were between 10 and 12 of us munchkins all clamoring for a ride.  Dad would place us one at a time on the saddle and holding the reigns guide Ginger around the ring.  This worked out almost perfectly.  My best friend at the time, we'll call him Bubba, felt the need to constantly yell at the horse while the others were riding her.  Finally my time came to ride, Dad took us around and it was a nice and gentle ride.  It came Bubba's turn, he was the last in line.  Dad placed him on Ginger just like he had the rest of us.  He began guiding her around the ring for the last time.  I don't know if she was tired from all of the other kids or if she had heard Bubba's constant yells and felt the need for some revenge.  Halfway around she shook and pulled loose from Dad.  Then for the first and only time I ever saw her, she broke out into a full run towards the barn.  Needless to say Bubba was scared.  He was yelling again, but this time it seemed he was yelling for his life.  Dad took off in a full run behind the horse.  Ginger stopped just short of the barb wire fence and just short of certain injury to Bubba.

Granny, Torturer Extraordinaire

In my adolescent years my birthday parties were pretty much the same.  They fell sometime after Kevin's and sometime before mine, being only six days apart this made sense.  Most of them were held at a picnic shelter at the local park.  We were allowed to invite any friends we wanted and almost all of the family attended.  They all stared with everyone socializing, playing on the playgrounds, and just having a good time.  The good time extended to the eating of food and eventually the slicing and eating of cake.  Then came the black cloud of every party.  The rain on my parade was the opening of presents.  Most kids love unwrapping their gifts, showing them around, unpacking them, and playing with them.  I would look over at the table of gifts and just cringe, somewhere underneath all of those great gifts was the bane of my existence.  I would open each gift one by one, taking my time, postponing the torture that awaited me.  Each opened present bought me closer to doom.  Finally I would run out of time and presents and have to open the one I had saved for the very last.  The name of the antagonist was written on the label in very careful print.  Who was this dungeon master in charge of my embarrassment?  No other than my own Granny.  What device lay beneath this colorful package of destruction?  A pack of underwear for me to display in front of all my friends.

Some Serious Hide And Seek

In elementary school I decided that I would become a detective.  I gathered my brother and a couple of the neighborhood kids and we started our own private investigators club.  We learned how to memorize license plates and look for clues in not so obvious places.  After a couple of weeks my dad made us official by providing us with our very own laminated identification cards.  The cards had our PI names and rank within the club.  To my amazement at the time my dad worked for the city and got the mayor's secretary to type up and laminate the cards.  Talk about feeling official!  Our club surely had to be the only ones with ID cards from the mayor's office.  We would soon be called to action.  One day one of the neighborhood girls decided to run away from home.  The whole development was in an uproar looking for her.  I decided right then that we would find her.  We searched all over, checking each yard, behind every bush, and even every structure at the playground.  Our search turned up nothing.  We had to leave to go to the store for dinner supplies, so we called off our search until the next day.  As we drove down the road, I kept constantly searching the landscape for her or any clues.  All of a sudden I yelled, "Stop!".  Mom pulled the car into the Lowe's parking lot and there she was hiding in the bushes, not more than a quarter mile from the neighborhood.

 

 

Red Wagon Daredevils

I remember thinking, "We are going to die!"

At the ripe age of 7, my brother and I decided that we would kill ourselves.  How did we happen upon this pact?  It came to us in the form of a red wagon.  Either Kevin or myself discovered that if you sat in the wagon and pulled the handle up, you could steer it from the inside almost like a car.  We needed a place to try this out.  A place worthy of a first run.  We discovered it.  Down the drive a little was a steep hill, where we could ride down and across the driveway.  The red wagon grudgingly followed us up the hill.  We arrived at the top and began to formulate a plan on how to get the wagon down the hill with both of us in it.  It was decided that I would drive.  Kevin would be the push man from the back and start our descent.  We climbed in, pulled the handle up, and took one last look around at the surroundings.  That's when I realized that at the bottom of the hill, across the drive way was the tin lined garage.  It became evident to me that the only way to stop was to run into the garage or try to turn the wagon hard enough to continue down the road.  The only problem with option two is that the sharp turn would surely turn us over.  Before I could abandon our plan, Kevin pushed off, and down the hill we went.  It seemed like we hit Mach 1 halfway down, each passing inch we gained speed.  I had to make a decision, hit the garage or turn over the wagon and hit the gravel at the speed of light.  I gripped the handle tight, gritted my teeth, and tightened my body to prepare for impact with the rusty metal wall.  My knuckles turned white, the color drained from my face, and my mind raced with the past 7 years of my life.  BAM!  We hit headlong into the garage and not a single scratch or dent on us or the heroic wagon.  There was but one thing left to do, do it again.

Ninja Turtles and Cassette Tapes

At an early time in my childhood I discovered a wonder of the Earth.  I knew of the previous eight wonders, but this new wonder surely had to be the ninth and newest wonder.  This newest craze was sweeping my elementary school by storm.  Anybody who was anybody was talking about it.  What was this latest craze that had set my world on fire?  It was none other than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  We didn't have a VCR at the time, so the only way I could relive each episode was by memory and imagination.  Surely there had to be a way that my brother and I could relive the turtles anytime we wanted.  But not just relive the memories, but relive each line and each action sequence as it was happening.  Suddenly an idea appeared.  The light bulb was lit and the solution was within reach.  The next morning we would put our plan into action.  We woke up, ran to the living room, turned on the tv, and started recording the show with our cassette recorder.  We made sure to pause recordings during the commercials.  After the show, we got dressed and headed off to school not fully knowing if our plan had worked to its fullest.  We got home, huddled up in our bedroom with our action figures, pressed play, and waited with bated breath.  The show played out of the speakers.  Liftoff!  As the sound played we used our action figures to recreate the show.  I look back on those days and realize that you don't need fancy things to create great memories, you just need a little work and ingenuity.

Snakes Alive!

At one time during my childhood we lived on a small farm that had a pasture, a barn, a riding ring, and an old smokehouse.  My brother and I were constantly told not to play in the smokehouse because snakes lived in it and we would surely be bitten.  Luckily for us, we thought ourselves much smarter than Mom and Dad.  Being the rambunctious children that we were, we found ourselves in the smokehouse on more than occasion.  On one particular day, we were playing in the forbidden palace when we heard a noise.  The hissing started quietly at first, almost like it was at a distance, then it grew very loud, very quickly.  Suddenly the noise was all around us encompassing every nook, every cranny, and bouncing off the decades old brick wall.  I instantly knew how Indiana Jones felt and why he felt that way.  We burst out of the smokehouse as fast as our legs could carry us.  But the sound only got louder and seemed to follow us.  Finally I stopped and looked around for the sound.  It came from all over, but it seemed to originate from above.  I looked up, half expecting the trees to be covered in snakes that were ready to pounce on us.  Instead of certain death, I saw a deflating hot air balloon making an emergency landing in the pasture.  The pilot was Mr. Bill, a local weather man and cartoon host for WLOS.  He talked to all of us and even autographed a few pictures for the family and neighbors.

Carolina Boy, California Team

How does a person who has never been west of Tennessee come to love a baseball team more than 2,000 miles away?

"All year long, they looked to him to light the fire, and all year long, he answered the demands, until he was physically unable to start tonight—with two bad legs: The bad left hamstring, and the swollen right knee. And, with two out, you talk about a roll of the dice...this is it. If he hits the ball on the ground, I would imagine he would be running 50 percent to first base. So, the Dodgers trying to catch lightning right now!"

I was an eight year old boy who was newly minted in his love for baseball.  I had not yet picked a favorite pro team.  I didn't know that on October 15, 1988 that I would find my team.

"No balls, two strikes, two out."

The excitement was building in the stadium and in me as well.  I hung onto every word that Vin Scully said.  I just couldn't sit still, from the couch to the floor and back again.

"Mike Davis, the tying run, is at second base with two out.  3-and-2. Sax waiting on deck, but the game right now is at the plate." 

I could feel magic in the air, it seemed like I was witnessing a once in a lifetime event.  The moment seemed to grow bigger and bigger with each passing second.  The chess game that is baseball was on full display. 

"High fly ball into right field, she i-i-i-is... gone!! In a year that has been so improbable... the impossible has happened! They are going wild at Dodger Stadium—no one wants to leave!" - Vin Scully

With one swing of the bat, Kirk Gibson won Game One of the World Series and cast me as a life long Dodgers fan.  I remember running around in circles, jumping up and down, and pumping my fists in the air.  It was a moment of unbridled joy and excitement.

Real Passion, Fake Wrestling

I was flipping through the channels the other night and ran across the WWE.  It's been a long time since I've watched 'rasslin on a regular basis.  Watching it reminded me of my childhood, reminded me of the love and hatred I had for the various characters portrayed.  I remember jumping up and down, screaming at the tv, and even emulating most of the moves I had seen.  I had such great passion for it.  I still have great passion for many people and things in my life, I just no longer find myself jumping up and down, screaming at the tv.  Maybe we all should.  Maybe this world would be a little more exciting if we all had something to jump around for.  When we find our jump around, that's exactly what we should do.  We should shout, sing, dance, jump, and let the whole world know about our passion!

  "Don’t ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” - Howard Thurman. 

I would like to leave you with one of my favorite wrestlers being interviewed.


Ric Flair Being Interviewed