uhmm...when I was a kid (oh boy, here it comes) there were these very, very steep hills somewhere in the mountains of California. Well, actually, they're probably still there. But I'm not, so that's what I meant there. And it was a long time ago, chronologically.
Ahem. There were these long needles all over the ground, I wanted to say pine needles, but I panicked, because I realized they might not have been pine, and some damn expert here ~ well, ALL the experts here ~ have made me very nervous. I KNOW they weren't either hypodermics, sewing, or knitting, so let's just go ahead and say pine. Needles. And that they were lying flat, turned over, on top of each other; all interwoven in a mat of tubular teflon pick-up-stix. Shiny, slick, and coppery color. Nice to look at, if you get down there close, because each one has a little thing on the end like a conductor's baton, and some chartreuse lichen bunches would be mixed in, like a Japanese hotel-dining dish; and nice to look at if you zoom out because they make a svelte forest floor above the lake. But it's a fun-house floor, because it's steep. I mean over that way, down away from the cabin. I always got thrilled seeing the blue of the lake through the...pines. Trees; whatever.
So this woven mat was pretty thick, maybe four/six inches in places, and thank goodness it was there, or the erosion would have been incredible (a little "adult" consciousness slipping in there). And boy, it was so slippery you couldn't walk some of these places without hanging on to the...tree branches. And you could easily slip and poke an eye out on same said branches. Goes without saying, mum.
So we would walk to the little store and get jawbreakers, big ones, and check all the colors that would solvate into view (who thinks of saliva as a wonder chemical?) (never you mind) and grab some cardboard boxes. Bigger ones. Which today would be recycled, of course.
And get a couple of branches for poles, and sit in those boxes, which you had to do while hanging onto a tree, or that box was outta there. Foop foop foosh down the hill, barely touching the mat, skim-skip style, without you in it, and you'd have to go down and get it, or go get another box, so hang onto something.
Top speeds? I don't know ~ 300 mph? The poles, we discovered, were a useless affectation, only for tortoise-dolt skiers. We put them in the bottom of the box though, to wedge yourself out of a situation if you got stuck, but pretty much the only thing that would stop you was... a tree. Standing was tried, but given up on. The words helmet and impalement feel like they need to be typed here, but it isn't me doing it. Your parents can tell you're having fun, doing something, because you don't come back for hours.
Oh gosh it was the most. Absolutely high speed out-of-control freeflight. Exhilaration. Acceleration. It's got it all. Squealing peals of laughter.
Carl broke his arm and two ribs, but that's a different story. He spent two weeks on the porch. (With the dog. It was a trained dog. People would always ask, "What's it trained to do?" "Nothing." I always liked when they did that, and I laughed.) Same place, but a more Tarzan-type story. No wait ~ George of The Jungle.
Dr Pepper came in cans, in a little sixpack woven together like a chalet with chimneys, ~ those cans that had a metal conical top, and I think a bottle cap. Hmmm good.
(When I got my first apartment, I picked my very own first MD out of the phonebook because his name was Dr Pepper. He was boring. Shoot.) (Yah - Shoot Thomas Wolfe.)
The hill; we probably stripped it of it's fragile eco-detritus cover, it's living skin, and it and half the mountain have slid into the lake. Muddying it. I'm sure. (Would've been cool to watch, tho.)
I would like to end on a positive note...
Hi C, anyone? |
