This is the third in an ongoing series of posts reminiscing about my lost youth as I approach the dread benchmark for over-the-hillness, my fortieth birthday. I'm striving to be entertaining here, so please avail yourself of Part 1 and Part 2. I mentioned in the previous post that I'd write about floating on scummy ponds, but I got off on a tangent, so you'll have to wait a few days for that bit of look-backery.
Best Friend #1 (BF1) had video games. And a pool table. And Ritz crackers and illicit peanut butter. And the best raspberries in the neighborhood.
Best Friend #2 (BF2) had Nintendo, eventually. But his Tinker Toy collection was second to none, and he had an awesome stereo system. With the Tinker Toys, I used to make this awesome laser gun that we'd use along with his Lego Uzi to fight the Visitors from V. Yeah, I know. You wish you were there. He also had a killer garden from which we'd snipe sugar snap peas to the point that his mom probably thought they had rabbits.
I had The Shed, which was fun for playing imaginative games like Escape from Alcatraz. It's amazing how much a ramshackle building can resemble a boat! I also had a dog strong enough to pull three thirteen-year-olds on skateboards. But one crazy enough that we could never tell which direction she'd go. It was particularly great when she'd cut a corner around a telephone pole, forcing use to release and try to chase down the now unencumbered dog. Not an easy task.
But none of us had good trees to climb. True, BF1 had crabapple trees which had tasty and tart fruit, though BF1 was again notoriously stingy, promising a 911 call if we didn't stop eating them!!! But nothing good for climbing. Ooh, except for that giant boulder in his front yard. That thing was cool. (Hey, siblings, remember climbing on that big rock outside Dad's office at the University? Good times. And candy bars for only a quarter!)
I think I mentioned this previously, but BF1 lived across the street from me. BF2 lived at the end of the street. We didn't really have any friends further up than my house, but we had one buddy midway between BF1 and BF2. Thus far I've called him Secondary Friend (SF), and I'm not sure why, really. He was several years younger, so I guess it's just that by high school we were in totally different circles. But I'll stick with SF, I guess. Just know it's not meant to be unflattering.
SF had an Atari 2600, which was cool, and his backyard was the best for kickball. Except when you accidentally shanked one over the wrong fence and that terrifying German Shepherd, Rebel, would dare you to come retrieve it. (Think The Sandlot here.) His house's central location and primo backyard made it the obvious gathering place for kickball, water fights, cap gun wars and everything else you might imagine groups of boys would do. Plus his mom made those awesome orange juice popsicles and zucchini bread. Yum!
But the main thing he had was the tallest tree in the neighborhood, and there wasn't a close second. We're talking high enough that we could see the school down at the end of the street and the ball park at the other end. (Ahh…climbing up on the dugouts with a pouch of Big League Chew. Good times. Getting plunked in the head by a fastball while sitting behind the backstop watching a teenager pitch, not such good times. But I digress.)
One of the great things about growing up in Anchorage was that a summer sleepover (fairly common) with SF could result in tree-climbing until 10pm or so, and even then the curfew was one of those arbitrary parental things rather than "Get out of those trees; it's getting dark!" Gotta love those long days!
One year, the power company came along and cut off the top of the tree. And all because of some silly notion of protecting us from the power lines interleaved with the branches. Like we'd ever cared about them before! We just climbed around them. Stupid adults. (In fairness, they probably thought that snow-packed tree limbs were good candidates for just plain taking the power lines down in the winter. Still.)
SF's house was also notable for the ill-advised roof-jump we performed while his family was converting their car port into a garage. Can you imagine having a car port in Anchorage? I can't believe their cars ever started in the winter. But anyhow, they gathered all the building materials, including this very cushy-looking stuff, and the cushy-looking stuff was basically right under the highest point of the roof. Who's not going to jump onto that?
This was all made possible, of course, by another great climbing tree they had. Right up against the side of the car port. Up the tree, onto the roof. Awesome. (Keep in mind it was a split-level home, so the roof wasn't as high as a typical two-story dwelling might be. Still, higher than you-should-jump-from height.
Such is the thinking of young boys that it's quite a mystery to me how we generally survive boyhood. I don't clearly remember the jump, though I remember one of my feet got through basically unpadded but didn't actually hit the ground. Realistically, I'm lucky not to have broken that leg. But there's one thing I remember very clearly:
You shouldn't jump,
from any height,
onto fiberglass insulation.
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Really, the advice for any parents of young boys out there should be this: If you have a tree which with an easy climb will allow access to your roof, you're going to have more than squirrels up there.
In the case of BF1, he didn't have a tree that allowed such access (though you could get onto his front porch via the crabapple tree in a pinch), but what he had was that wonderful deck, complete with a railing which, when climbed upon, allowed access to his roof. It was nice in the summer, because the asphalt shingles were nice and warm, so we'd climb up there with our Diet Pepsis and Ritz Crackers and just enjoy the view. (Hidden behind the crabapple tree so my folks wouldn't see. Did I mention BF1 lived directly across the street?)
But the winter was the best time for using the deck-to-roof route. Remember when I mentioned the school at the end of the street? (Campbell Elementary, FYI.) Well, it turns out that our street was on the main bus route, and a nice, big, yellow bus makes a very inviting snowball target. You can hardly blame us for testing our arm strength against the reinforced sides of many a school bus. (BTW, in terms of arm strength, I could easily hit any stray sisters in my driveway from up there. Not that I would have…
You have to be careful when targeting a bus. What you really want is to hit the front windshield right as it passes, so the bus driver never really sees you. You want the kids in the bus to see though, so it's a good practice to have at least three throwers: Two aim at the front, one at the passenger windows. (Redundancy on the most important shot.)
The pitch of BF1's roof was just right so we could climb up the back side of it and throw snowballs, then duck behind the peak to avoid detection. (This is more important when aiming at cars than busses, because bus driver generally don't jam on the breaks and come looking for you. Uptight drivers of Subarus do.) That made it so we couldn't see the impacts, but there's really nothing like the sound of a perfectly-packed snowball hitting at just the right angle on a windshield. It's not as loud as the passenger space hits, but it's more satisfying.
My son hasn't shown much interest in tree-climbing, even though we have six big Norway Maples in our yard. Or maybe I just don't know how many times he's gotten up on our roof…(actually he's worse about heights than I am).
Next up, I promise I'll tell you the tale of the Frog Pond and divinely-provided floatation.