Great River Raft Race

This is the start of a much longer story. I fool around with this story all the time so you may see this again…

The year was 1994. School had just ended for the summer and my friends and I were finally able to begin what we had been attempting to do all year long, absolutely nothing. Four of us were discussing what all 16 year old boys discus on warm summer nights, how to build a floating bridge over a stream. Gary, who initiated the debate, was quite set on using plywood panels supported by one gallon milk jugs. This was agreeable to me primarily because I could not have cared less. The river in question was approximately two feet deep at the point of the proposed crossing, and my solution had always been to walk through the water. My twin brother, Brady, on the other hand was much more argumentative and while he conceded that plywood was an excellent base, he proposed the support should be inner tubes as these were more readily available and, as he so eloquently put it, “Milk jugs are stupid.”

Although a strong argument, it was unable to move me to the point of being interested as I had more important things on my mind. I was still struggling over the age old question, does going fishing with a girl count as a date, or just a fun thing friends do. I tried to consult my peers on several occasions but was ignored, bridge building being a much more interesting topic.

Naturally the discussion soon turned from floating bridge engineering, to raft construction. Gary had decided that a raft made from gallon milk jugs would be faster and more buoyant than one made from inner tubes. Dan, as always, agreed. My brother and I were not convinced. The only way to settle this debate would be a race.

Of course every race has rules. Dan found some paper at his Grandmother’s house and we began to write. I suggested no drowning and it was passed with a majority vote. Several other rules were passed and the document was ratified. I’m not sure what most of the other rules were, I was still wondering if I should ask my cute fishing partner to the movies.

It had always been my job to make sure no one was killed by any of the ideas Gary came up with and the no drowning rule had taken care of that. My ears perked up when Gary and Dan suggested that fighting be allowed as part of the race. Now this was a good idea. I mean, just a race based on speed sounded kind of boring. But, if we were able to board each others rafts and then use some sort of weapon to slow the other contestants down, well that turned boring into fun.

The weapons were made from broom handles. We topped each broom handle with an empty two liter bottle of soda. They worked pretty well and if everyone agreed not to swing them too hard they did not produce that much pain.

Branchwood Creek flowed through Dan’s woods, under a bridge and down over a small dam. It was decided that the race would start on Dan’s property at the zip line. The river was narrow and shallow at that point and it was determined that no fighting would be allowed until the bridge. After the bridge the water became much deeper and therefore safer for any fighting. The finish line would be made by stretching a rope from one side of the river to the other side and was twenty feet upstream from the dam.

Brady and I had a budget of exactly ten dollars. Most of those funds were set aside for the inner tubes. That meant we had to skimp on the wooden platform that would make the hull of our raft. My brother and I were able to scrounge up some old rotted wooden planks from around our house. The result was something that looked slightly better than a large piece of driftwood. We christened her the Salty Dog.

Dan and Gary got their lumber the old fashion way, by stealing it from a construction site. Gary had actually calculated the amount of one gallon milk jugs that they would need to support both his and Dan’s weight. It took them the better part of two months to drink that much milk. But soon the Lusty Wench was built.

The river was narrow at the starting point and the rafts had to line up two. Wish read the rules, which no one paid attention too, and then we got ready to start the race. Brady and I braced ourselves and tightened our grips on the paddles. Looking over I saw Dan standing on his raft, twitching in anticipation. Suddenly a cry ran out and in a fury of movement the race had begun.

Cocktails

Winter nights with nothing to do. Idle hands…

I’m not sure if Wish volunteered or was volunteered. I know that I did not want to do it. Hanging around with Dan and Gary made me an expert at doing stupid stuff and I knew right away that this was pretty stupid. It was a dark cold night and a crisp silence hung in the air. There was enough light from the stars to make the freshly fallen snow glisten, but not much else of the basketball court was visible. Wish gripped the bottle with one hand and held it away from his body as everyone gathered around.

Dan flicked the flint on his lighter and Styer chimed in with one last piece of advice. “Wish, it’s going to take a long time for the rag to ignite so you’ll have to wait a while before you throw.” Dan touched the flame to the rag and Wish’s hand was immediately engulfed in fire. People scattered as Wish flung the Moltof Cocktail into the air.

Watching the fireball cut through the air, I could only think that this was all going much better than I thought. I couldn’t help but smile.

The flaming orb completed its arch and emptied its contents with a sharp crash on the snow covered asphalt. The blue flames of the gasoline spread out across the ground. Brady and Barron began to kick snow onto the fire in an attempt to extinguish the blaze. This action only accomplished setting Brady’s pants and Barron’s shoes on fire. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

I quickly surveyed the scene. Wish was on his knees burying his flaming hand in the snow. Matt was throwing snow on Brady and he rolled around on the ground. Barron and his flaming shoes had taken off running leaving a trail of fire. Everyone else was throwing snow onto the flickering blue flames. I couldn’t help but laugh.

By the time everyone who was on fire was extinguished the blaze had gone down and collectively we all ran from the basketball courts. My laughter hung in the night air.

White Socks

This is a true story. Believe it or not I’m still friends with those girls.

If you are going to do something sneaky at night wearing black is a good idea. Some people will argue that navy blue is better, but in reality any dark color will work. One of the worst colors to wear while sneaking around is white. No matter how much black, blue or gray you wear, if your white socks are exposed people will see you.

I had just gotten off of work at Fantini’s and all the guys were playing night paintball. I had all my gear in the Jeep and was on my way up Dan’s long drive when I saw a car parked in the middle of the road. I did not recognize this particular car but that was not unusual so I pulled off to the side of the driveway and parked the Jeep.

It was a dark night so I could hear but not see my friends running around in the park firing paintballs at each other. Grabbing my gear from the car I headed up Dan’s driveway. It was early spring and the night was cool and crisp. I had walked a short way up Dan’s drive when in the darkness I saw white patches hovering about the ground several yards in front of me. The white patches suddenly stopped moving and as I strained my eyes in the dark the white patches began to grow legs and then bodies. The bodies became a flurry of movement and I realized that several girls dressed in black, except for their white socks, were running towards me. This put me in a state of confusion as nothing like this had happened to me before. I stood helpless as the girls ran at, and then past me, their giggles ringing in my ears, as I was left disappointed in their wake. Even in my stupor the cans of shaving cream did not escape my notice. Like a cold shower I was snapped out of my hormone induced daze and realized with absolute clarity what these girls were up to.

My mouth voiced what my brain was screaming, “My car!” Truth be told it was my parent’s car but that was all the more reason I wanted to prevent the Jeep from being covered with shaving cream. I spun around and promptly fell on my ass. Jumping up I began to sprint to my car. I quickly gained on the girls and was able to pass through them by knocking one or two of the smaller ones down. Their giggling and stray shots of shaving cream filled the air. The Jeep was within my sight as I tripped and slid face first to the driver’s side door. Reaching up I grabbed the handle and wrenched open the door. I had somehow gotten my keys out and slammed them in the ignition. The car started moving backwards as I was half in and half out of the driver’s seat.

The headlights lit up the night and I was able to get a good look at my attackers. Five or six girls in all, dressed in black(except for white socks) and carrying cans of shaving cream and jars of Vaseline. Normally that would be a party, tonight it was a nightmare. The headlights seemed to stun the girls and instead of decorating the Jeep, they ran to the previously unidentified car in Dan’s driveway.

All this activity had alerted my paintball playing friends that something was happening. In full camo, slingshots in hand, they emerged from the darkness, not a white sock to be seen. Instinctively the guys knew something had happened and they gave the ladies getaway car a new paint job. In all probability the car would have been pelted with paintballs no matter what the girls did, but in a strange way justice had been served

Preface

This is the preface to my Great River Raft Race story. But that’s a story for another time…

It is said that every person has one good book in them. Unfortunately, I wrote mine in 2nd grade. It told the tragic tale of my dog’s death, complete with illustrations. I received five gold stars and a “good job” from my teacher, Mrs. Wilcox, who was infamous for only giving four stars to most of the literature she reviewed. I will concede that the strength of the praise focused of my use of all ten vocabulary words (it happened to be a morbid list) rather than my writing skills.
It went over well with my colleagues and the rest of the public primarily because of the illustrations, which were also done by me. As it happened my dog, a toy poodle, was eaten by a german shepard and this led to some vivid, horrifying, and as far as my peers were concerned wonderful pictures. The piece that received the most acclaim came from the climax of the story, when my dog was being eaten. This cannibalistic scene was depicted with streaks of red covering a green landscape. The huge german shepard was completely black except for a red sweater that displayed a swastika. In its jaws was my white poodle with the words, “help me I’m dying” floating above him. This violence was juxtapositioned against a clear blue sky with a yellow smiley faced sun it the corner. Brilliant to say the least.
I would never again be able to reach the literary peak that was accomplished in Dead Dogs Don’t Play Fetch. Sure, my documentary on mountain lions, Puma or Cougar: Why This Cat Needs More Than One Name received good reviews as well as my historical fiction piece about Thanksgiving, Who Stole the Turkey? . I tried my hand at fiction in a story about a monkey who refused to eat bananas entitled The Monkey That Didn’t Eat Bananas, but it lacked creativity and used only five vocabulary words. I no longer had an urge to write.
But on a summer’s day an event took place that was so incredible that I would have been remiss not to have documented it in some way. With some trepidation I picked up my pen and paper and recorded, to the best of my recollection, the events that took place on that fateful day.

Unlocking Doors

This was a short essay I wrote for my friend Matt.

Eventually we would have been able to open the car door, I’m almost sure of this. We had all the tools; pliers, string, duct tape and two straightened hangers. Everything one would need to break into a car. This was not the first time Brady, Matt and I had to open Matt’s car without using keys. Matt had a habit of leaving his keys in the ignition and his cars had a habit of locking when the doors closed. These mishaps mainly happened in the summer and caused us no great pain since we never had anywhere we needed to be. In fact, breaking into the car gave us a challenge, something to do.

The squarish blue junker of a car had its engine attached to the frame with a two by four. Clearly this was no Fort Knox. Yet we had been working on popping open the passenger side door for a more than a couple of hours. Brady had been able to push the driver side window down far enough to allow a small pliers duct taped to one of the straightened hangers to be slid into the car. I was on the other side, sliding the second hanger through one of many holes in the car. The plan was simple. Attach the straightened hanger I was using to the one of the handles of the pliers. Once connected Brady would be able to pull on his end, and I would pull on my end causing the nose of the pliers to grab the locking lever. Then we would just pull up on the lock, thus unlocking the car door. This was actually the least complex of all of our ideas.

Just as it started getting dark, Matt’s dad pulled into the driveway. Matt’s dad parked his Honda, got out and walked over to where the three of us were huddling around the car. Matt quickly explained our plight, and with some pride described our plan. Brady and I looked on, nodding as our ingenious plan was retold. Matt’s dad chuckled and then pushed up his glasses towards the bridge of his nose. I instantly recognized the look Matt’s dad was giving us. I had seen it in my own dad’s eyes many times. It was the look of a father looking at their child, and friends in this case, wondering where it all went wrong. I’m sure he said something smart, fathers always do. Matt’s dad took the hanger Brady was holding limply in his hand and opened the door in seconds.

At the time I didn’t know how he did it. I’m old enough to know now. He did it because he was a dad and dads know how to do that kind of stuff.

What to do with this Blog

Since no one wants to read about my life, including me, I think I’m going to try and post short stories every couple of weeks. I’ll call them micro stories. I’m not a writer so bear with me.

Putting the Mulch Down

I spent much of the afternoon mulching the front and side yard. Reminds me of landscaping that summer in college. However, I dont think I will be playing hearts all night. Ten years gone, holding on…

Spring Day

It is very warm today for March. I was driving back from the gym with the windows down and radio pumping. When do you get too old to blast music with the windows down? I pulled up to a stop sign at the same time as some kid that must have been in high school. His music was only slightly louder than mine. His: Rap, Mine: Led Zeppelin. I think we know who won that battle.