At the time of this writing, there is all kinds of warnings about heavy snowfall, freezing rain, and wicked wind speeds predicted to settle into our area and shut things down for a day or two. People are preparing by buying up milk and eggs, calling off meetings or already making notice that they might not be at work the next day. All this reminds me of those days back in grade school and high school when we had snow days. Not only did we get out of school, which was a GOOD THING, but it meant that my friends and I would have an extra day to hang out together and have all sorts of fun.
Should a snow day be declared, on the night before, phone calls would go out to make plans for the following day to meet somewhere (despite road conditions)and make the most of the frozen landscape with snowmobiles, ATV's or shovels. (We could build snow forts like no one's business)
But what I really enjoyed the most were those days when, either it was way to cold to be outside, or the idea of working that hard was not appealing, we would stay inside and play games. Classic 1970's board games geared towards boys. Games like Carrier Strike, Stratego, Chopper Strike, Tank Battle, Battleship!, Sub Search and of course, RISK. There were others too, but these are the ones that stick in my mind as the ones that made it to the game table more often than not.
We would break these games out and play for hours. If someone lost, there would be a rematch and the games would go on until satisfaction was won, or we got bored and moved on to a different game. RISK was a game that could go on for hours at a time, for as you know, there is no domination like total world domination in the classic game of RISK! Never surrender, never give up.
This was the time before video games. It was also before I discovered Dungeons & Dragons. I think this is why I love board games so much. It was such a part of my childhood that it was imprinted on my psyche that quality time equaled gaming time. There was no stigma connected to being a "gamer" at this point and we were never embarrassed to say we played games for hours on end and called it fun! We even bragged about it at school.
I know that snow days now are a high point in the school year, and kids get together to play games to celebrate it, but now they join online games connected via their computer or game console. No need to risk life and limb to get together anymore on a heavy snow day. I find it kind of sad, but it is part of the new world of technology that our kids live in. I embrace it too, but I would like to see my kids and their friends participate in a few more snow days like I used. Probably because I would like to join them...
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death!
At some point in my childhood, near about the time when most of my friends and I had learned to ride and drive mini-bikes and small motorcycles, our feelings of immortality were reaching their peak. After all, we had just conquered learning to ride motorcycles even before stepping in to a Driver's Education course to learn to drive cars. And as was the nature with those friends of mine, riding a motorcycle was just not enough. Riding by yourself was boring, unless you were in a race, or trying to run over one of your "ground-bound" friends with said motorcycle. (I should stop right here. We did not use motorcycles exclusively for this task. We found that hitting a person had a tendency to make the motorcycle unstable, so we quickly switched over to three-wheeled ATV's for this purpose)
Anyway, at some point, it was just more fun to have your friends come along for the ride and even though you could get one person on the back, having everyone in the group come along for the ride was even better. But how do you do this with a motorcycle that you can fit only one person on? You turn to the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death.
The S.W.C of D. was a contraption that we created out of a old steel frame of some 1910 or 20's wagon that the wood components had long ago rotted away, leaving only the skeleton of welded and bolted metal to work with. I am not sure how it got there, but one day it appeared in the back part of my dad's yard, near the burn/trash pile. It was like a God-send to us boys and we immediately put it to good use!
We slapped a wooden door down on the frame, secured a back board to that and constructed a hitch of sorts that would attach to the back end of a motorcycle with out restricting the way a bike leans when turning. It all looked good in our minds and the best way to find out was to throw some people on and take it for a spin. Lo! and Behold! The damned thing worked perfectly. It took a bit of effort for the motorcycle operator to maintain an upright position on the bike due to the drag caused by the S.W.C of D. but it was not impossible to clip along at about 10 miles an hour over grass and fields with a few boys happily bouncing along behind in contraption that would eventually start to bend, bruise and almost break a number of boys in very short order.
Riding about on the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death was fine if you were on soil, but once you hit paved or gravel roads, the ride became almost unbearable. Almost. We discovered that if you were riding in the S. W. C. of D. while on a road, you had to keep your mouth tightly shut or you might bite your tongue or crack your teeth due to the jackhammering that was a result of the bare steel wheels making contact with a hard surface like the road. Some riders preferred to stand, but this made the entire balance of the cart go wonky, so seated was the only way to be able to ride. The exception was standing on the very back of the cart, holding on to the backboard and standing on part of the frame. It was a prime position and one that allowed for quick exit from the cart once the ride was over. So we would jockey for position every time we used the cart and it was a useful contraption for about, oh, a week.
I remember it being a cool fall or spring day. The grass was still green, but it was very wet, and there were no crops in the fields, so it is hard to remember was season it was. Not that it matters. What matters is that a number of us had gathered from some reason in Claytonville. Probably a game day, or a bb gun fight, or something along those lines. Those present that I can remember, were Denver, Mike, Tom, Jeff, myself and I think my brother. We had all found ourselves at the bridge that crossed over the crick (Whiskey Creek) that passed by town. We had all arrived there via motorcycle and the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. But it was time to call it a day so we gathered up and headed back to town. (Which is only about a 40-50 second ride) On the motorcycle was Tom. On the S. W. C. of D. was Denver, Jeff, Mike, myself, and again, I think my brother. Everyone was on the cart, with Mike having secured the comfy position on the back. And off we went.
However, something went terribly wrong. Somewhere in the short time it took to get from the starting position to up to speed, someone or something caused the front of the cart to lift up, taking a good deal of ground traction off of the rear tire of the motorcycle and causing Tom to lose control of the bike. At this point, Mike saw what was coming and proceeded to jump off the back of the cart, which not only brought the front end down, but also propelled the cart frame into the back of the motorcycle tire and fender, catching up underneath the fender. Tom sped up immediately to attempt to unlock the motorcycle from the frame, which it did, but it in turned jerked the remaining riders back onto the backboard, causing us to clamber for secure positions.
The rest of this story is what I remember actually happening to me, and what I remember Mike telling us all what he saw after he exited the cart.
Mike said he saw the motorcycle and cart veer off of the road and down into the ditch, which had about a 10-12 foot drop. He said that Jeff tried to jump off the cart, got caught by the wheel as he left and fell onto the road as motorcycle and all were heading down into the ditch. He said, Denver and I had grabbed on to one another like two lovers in a full hug embrace, bouncing up and down on the cart, trying desperately to stay on board. And then the cart started to roll and proceeded to throw everyone, including Tom on the motorcycle, from their seated postions, out into the ditch and accompanying field.
From my perspective, all I remember was seeing the motorcycle in front of me start to fishtail horribly, someone screaming and jumping off the cart, and noticing the cart was no longer behind, but above the motorcycle that was supposed to be pulling it! I suppose this was because the motorcycle was headed down into the ditch, with the S.W.C. of D. in full pursuit. As the cart began to tilt and roll, I attempted to jump out, but the shoulder of my army jacket got caught in the spokes of the steel wheels and it pulled me down and around, my arm actually ripping out the 2x4 that was used to support the backboard to the wood door we used as a floor. I remember seeing things upside down as I rolled on the grass, the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death flipping over, and Tom and the motorcycle also falling to the ground, to stop at the bottom of the soggy edge of the field. And I remember laughter.
Mike was laughing his ass off. He was standing up on the road, looking down at us and laughing as hard as he ever had. We all stood up, looked to make sure nothing was broken on us, and once assured of that, began the excited retelling of surviving the trip of death on our now bent and broken Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. My shoulder hurt like hell. Jeff was kind of banged up from landing on the road, and Tom was pissed because something had broken on his motorcycle. I don't recall what happened to Denver, but he survived realatively unscathed.
We limped back home to my house and my friends went their own ways, but the next day at school we had a story to tell! I don't recall was happended to the S.W.C.of D. but we never used it again. I don't even think we pulled it out of the ditch. I supposed someone drug it out and used it for scrap metal, but it, like so many other things from my childhood, was one of those things I will never forget.
Anyway, at some point, it was just more fun to have your friends come along for the ride and even though you could get one person on the back, having everyone in the group come along for the ride was even better. But how do you do this with a motorcycle that you can fit only one person on? You turn to the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death.
The S.W.C of D. was a contraption that we created out of a old steel frame of some 1910 or 20's wagon that the wood components had long ago rotted away, leaving only the skeleton of welded and bolted metal to work with. I am not sure how it got there, but one day it appeared in the back part of my dad's yard, near the burn/trash pile. It was like a God-send to us boys and we immediately put it to good use!
We slapped a wooden door down on the frame, secured a back board to that and constructed a hitch of sorts that would attach to the back end of a motorcycle with out restricting the way a bike leans when turning. It all looked good in our minds and the best way to find out was to throw some people on and take it for a spin. Lo! and Behold! The damned thing worked perfectly. It took a bit of effort for the motorcycle operator to maintain an upright position on the bike due to the drag caused by the S.W.C of D. but it was not impossible to clip along at about 10 miles an hour over grass and fields with a few boys happily bouncing along behind in contraption that would eventually start to bend, bruise and almost break a number of boys in very short order.
Riding about on the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death was fine if you were on soil, but once you hit paved or gravel roads, the ride became almost unbearable. Almost. We discovered that if you were riding in the S. W. C. of D. while on a road, you had to keep your mouth tightly shut or you might bite your tongue or crack your teeth due to the jackhammering that was a result of the bare steel wheels making contact with a hard surface like the road. Some riders preferred to stand, but this made the entire balance of the cart go wonky, so seated was the only way to be able to ride. The exception was standing on the very back of the cart, holding on to the backboard and standing on part of the frame. It was a prime position and one that allowed for quick exit from the cart once the ride was over. So we would jockey for position every time we used the cart and it was a useful contraption for about, oh, a week.
I remember it being a cool fall or spring day. The grass was still green, but it was very wet, and there were no crops in the fields, so it is hard to remember was season it was. Not that it matters. What matters is that a number of us had gathered from some reason in Claytonville. Probably a game day, or a bb gun fight, or something along those lines. Those present that I can remember, were Denver, Mike, Tom, Jeff, myself and I think my brother. We had all found ourselves at the bridge that crossed over the crick (Whiskey Creek) that passed by town. We had all arrived there via motorcycle and the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. But it was time to call it a day so we gathered up and headed back to town. (Which is only about a 40-50 second ride) On the motorcycle was Tom. On the S. W. C. of D. was Denver, Jeff, Mike, myself, and again, I think my brother. Everyone was on the cart, with Mike having secured the comfy position on the back. And off we went.
However, something went terribly wrong. Somewhere in the short time it took to get from the starting position to up to speed, someone or something caused the front of the cart to lift up, taking a good deal of ground traction off of the rear tire of the motorcycle and causing Tom to lose control of the bike. At this point, Mike saw what was coming and proceeded to jump off the back of the cart, which not only brought the front end down, but also propelled the cart frame into the back of the motorcycle tire and fender, catching up underneath the fender. Tom sped up immediately to attempt to unlock the motorcycle from the frame, which it did, but it in turned jerked the remaining riders back onto the backboard, causing us to clamber for secure positions.
The rest of this story is what I remember actually happening to me, and what I remember Mike telling us all what he saw after he exited the cart.
Mike said he saw the motorcycle and cart veer off of the road and down into the ditch, which had about a 10-12 foot drop. He said that Jeff tried to jump off the cart, got caught by the wheel as he left and fell onto the road as motorcycle and all were heading down into the ditch. He said, Denver and I had grabbed on to one another like two lovers in a full hug embrace, bouncing up and down on the cart, trying desperately to stay on board. And then the cart started to roll and proceeded to throw everyone, including Tom on the motorcycle, from their seated postions, out into the ditch and accompanying field.
From my perspective, all I remember was seeing the motorcycle in front of me start to fishtail horribly, someone screaming and jumping off the cart, and noticing the cart was no longer behind, but above the motorcycle that was supposed to be pulling it! I suppose this was because the motorcycle was headed down into the ditch, with the S.W.C. of D. in full pursuit. As the cart began to tilt and roll, I attempted to jump out, but the shoulder of my army jacket got caught in the spokes of the steel wheels and it pulled me down and around, my arm actually ripping out the 2x4 that was used to support the backboard to the wood door we used as a floor. I remember seeing things upside down as I rolled on the grass, the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death flipping over, and Tom and the motorcycle also falling to the ground, to stop at the bottom of the soggy edge of the field. And I remember laughter.
Mike was laughing his ass off. He was standing up on the road, looking down at us and laughing as hard as he ever had. We all stood up, looked to make sure nothing was broken on us, and once assured of that, began the excited retelling of surviving the trip of death on our now bent and broken Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. My shoulder hurt like hell. Jeff was kind of banged up from landing on the road, and Tom was pissed because something had broken on his motorcycle. I don't recall what happened to Denver, but he survived realatively unscathed.
We limped back home to my house and my friends went their own ways, but the next day at school we had a story to tell! I don't recall was happended to the S.W.C.of D. but we never used it again. I don't even think we pulled it out of the ditch. I supposed someone drug it out and used it for scrap metal, but it, like so many other things from my childhood, was one of those things I will never forget.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Story time...
This year I am going to spend more time on the old blog with stories from my childhood. And by "childhood" I mean that period of time when I was between the years of 8 and 17. I seem to recall that most of my memorable childhood stories come from that age range, but don't expect me to be able to nail down exactly how old I was in some of these stories. My childhood was a ton of fun and it all seemed to run together in terms of years. The best I might be able to do is say I was on the older range or the younger range of my childhood. I hope you enjoy these stories and maybe even share this with your child and tell he or she, "Do not do stuff like this!" Maybe someone can learn from my mistakes... but then again, I survived and still have all my parts.... almost. Over time you will come to know my best buddies and members of my family, and maybe figure out just how I managed to survive my childhood and some of what makes me tick.
OF GRILLS AND MUSHROOM CLOUDS
Life as a kid in Claytonville, Il. was one of making your own fun, because let's face it, living in town that consists of 50-60 people, of which 90% were hard working adults, could get pretty boring. And a small town located in east central Illinois,in the late 70's and early 80's, saying that modernity and "civilization" had arrived there, was stretching the truth a bit. Sure, we had heat (downstairs) in the winter, but no air conditioning in the summer. (My parents waited until every kid was out of the house before getting that.) We even had indoor running water, flush toilets and all that, so don't get the idea that it was like living on the frontier, but many modern conveniences that those living in the big cities of Paxton or Champaign took for granted, we did not have. Movie theaters, colored TV or more than three channels to watch, parks, and so forth So, as kids we made our own fun. Usually with things that exploded. Or burnt. Or melted. Or went fast or shot things. You get the idea. Here is one that everyone in my family knows about and for the most part, several members of the families of those involved.
Summers in Claytonville were fun. Jobs were easy to find if you were willing to work on a farm or outside, but work was work and that was not fun. Most of my friends and I worked only in the morning of the summer to avoid the heat of the day, leaving the rest of the day to use as we saw fit. One one particular day, we decided to beat the heat by holing up in a small copse of trees that lined a cornfield. It was your typical hedge row, with tangled Osage orange trees, horse-weeds, wild raspberry bushes and tall grasses all growing in the same small condensed area. It was located just a few hundred yards from my house, right near the railroad tracks that cut Claytonville in half, running east and west. (Debate still rages as to who lived on the right side of the tracks and who did not)
The little hedgerow had served as hideout, enemy territory, hunting ground, and a myriad of other purposes, depending on the mood and ideas of the boys using it. At this particular time, we (Tom, Mike, my brother Darryl, and myself) were using it as shade from the heat and as a private men's club, complete with manufactured luxuries, including a brick fireplace and grill. Despite the heat of summer, we stoked a fire in the tiny fireplace and were enjoying the idea of being men among men, having constructed our own man-cave where we could eat, sleep, and drink anytime we liked. Not that we slept there or ate there, but we did drink there. Soda. And lots of it! Especially root beer and Pepsi.
Empty bottles were scattered about in every direction. Neatness was not something that was high on our club's priorities. Suffice it to say that there were a number of them sitting around and eventually one of these empty bottles must have caught the attention of one of us. I am not sure who started it, but I recall that someone had acquired a bottle, filled it half full of water from a nearby mud-puddle, and had corked it with a mixture of mud and dried corncob, firmly shoved down the neck of the bottle. Said bottle was soon placed on the fireplace/grill and the fire increased until the water began to boil within the bottle, creating immense pressure that would finally result in the makeshift cork to fail and the water to fountain out of the bottle, much to the delight of those present in the little hedgerow. About 4 or 5 bottles were sacrificed in this manner before someone would take our idea on a wicked turn.
Most of the ideas that we came up with to avoid boredom were usually good at first, but then, some idiot, (always one of the usual suspects) would decide to escalate the idea to its most illogical ___________. (fill in the blank with words anything like; conclusion, explosion, concussion, piercing, collision, etc, etc.) Without fail, this is indeed what happened. The idiot in this case (or at the time and age, genius)was my best buddy, Mike.
Mike lived across the tracks and if there is someone who you will meet in these stories more often than not, it will be Mike. Mike was a good friend for me to have. He knew (as all best buddies do) how to push my buttons and made me stretch myself as a person. He dared (and sometimes forced) me to do things I probably would not have done. He was very outgoing and everyone liked him, but I got to call him my best friend.
Mike had stepped out of the hedgerow and had come back with a bottle filled to the top and well stoppered with not just mud and corncob but a hefty amount of clay, which could be found just about anywhere in Claytonville. (There used to be a brick factory that was housed on the ground were my house and outbuildings were located) He came back with almost a wild look in his eye, as he placed the bottle on the grill and added more wood and fuel to the fire. Looking back now, it was obvious what he had done, but at that time, it just did not seem like anything was wrong, at least at first. But then, we noticed, as the bottle started to show the first bubbles of boiling, that the liquid in the bottle was two toned, and that Mike was very cautiously, yet very deliberately, inching backwards AWAY from the fireplace and the bottle set upon the tiny grill plate. Normally, we would get close to things that were flaming or on otherwise about to flame up, but this time, it was different.
Call it some unseen or unspoken signal, some smell of fear, or maybe we were all realizing what might just be in that bottle that we all began moving back to a safe distance of, oh, say, 5 to 10 feet, but at the same time, still give us front row viewing for the upcoming show. And what a show it was!
At some point, the level of heat had made the "water" in the bottle reach the point where it would shoot the cork off. However, Mike had done a marvelous job at securing the cork in the bottle. So much so, that instead of shooting out the corncob cork, the bottle instead burst apart and released what, to our eyes, was essentially the god of HellFire! (There was much rejoicing.) When that bottle exploded, the water, and what ever else was mixed into it, combined with the air and created (Okay, now remember, I am trying to remember this with my child's eye and memory.) a column of fire about 6 feet around, and a resulting mushroom ball of fire and smoke that belched up through the trees (full grown) and out of the canopy for about five feet. After a cursory glance about to see if anyone was dead or bleeding, we all jumped up to survey the damage to our little club and congratulate each other on being present for such a show, much less on simply being alive and in one piece. Our fireplace and grill, and the fire within were snuffed out of existence. Dried grass on the ground and small leaves on the trees above us were still smoking, but for the most part there was little damage done. Once again, God had looked out for us and kept us safe, despite our best efforts.
It seems that Mike had traveled outside of the realm of regular mud-puddles and went to where there was a fuel refilling station that carried, home heating fuel, gas, diesel, and kerosene. This station was, like so many things, just about 150 yards from my house and about 25 yards (certainly more than safe enough distance) from where we were having our little experiment using fire and water. In huge tanks that were suspended horizontally on steel trusses, there was somewhere close to 500,000 gallons of fuel. These resided in a retaining pit, surrounded by only a grass berm, in which was an ever present pond of water that even on a good day, was about 2/3 water and 1/3 fuel mix. It was here that Mike apparently went to fill his bottle. (Thinking back on this, it is a good damned thing none of us ever took up smoking, because had we, eventually, especially with as much time as we spent in, on, or around this place, we would have dropped a lit match or cigarette in this pond of fuel mixture)
While we were excited talking about our most recent venture in to explosive experimentation, and discussing what it would take to rebuild the fireplace so we could do it again, we all heard the one thing that would make us freeze in fear, or annoyance. My mother, who normally worked during the day in the summer, happened to be home and was washing dishes in the kitchen. There is a window right next to the sink and unfortunately, that window looks right out in the direction of the fuel tanks and the hedgerow where the god of Hellfire had just appeared moments ago.
There is not a single friend of mine that will ever forget the shrill voice of my mother calling for me or my brother or any of their names from across the yard or tracks. Normally it was to call us home. This time however, it had a particular "shrillness" that conveyed both anger, fright, and concern. It only took one call from my mother for Tom and Mike to high-tail it across the track to his house to hide out and leave my brother and I to our fates.
For my brother and I, we had the unfortunate luck to have to go home after a parent had seen what had just happened and at the same time, have a the one person also in the house that for some reason, scared us more than our father. My older brother, David. He came charging out of the house and met us as we were coming back and proceeded to chew us out for doing some so dangerous and crazy. And looking back, I think he was more worried (and maybe rightly so) about the fact that we could have ignited over 500,000 gallons of fuel and in a blink of an eye, remove an entire town from the map. I would not be surprised if he didn't think that if we killed ourselves, he would have two less problems in the world to deal with.
But in the end, I cannot really recall what our punishment was for being part of the fireball incident, probably because I was so incredibly psyched up about being so close to something so cool. I think my brother and I got grounded, but being grounded in a small town is not really much of a punishment so it was kind of a wash and I as you will find out, no lesson was learned, except on how to make bigger fireball.
OF GRILLS AND MUSHROOM CLOUDS
Life as a kid in Claytonville, Il. was one of making your own fun, because let's face it, living in town that consists of 50-60 people, of which 90% were hard working adults, could get pretty boring. And a small town located in east central Illinois,in the late 70's and early 80's, saying that modernity and "civilization" had arrived there, was stretching the truth a bit. Sure, we had heat (downstairs) in the winter, but no air conditioning in the summer. (My parents waited until every kid was out of the house before getting that.) We even had indoor running water, flush toilets and all that, so don't get the idea that it was like living on the frontier, but many modern conveniences that those living in the big cities of Paxton or Champaign took for granted, we did not have. Movie theaters, colored TV or more than three channels to watch, parks, and so forth So, as kids we made our own fun. Usually with things that exploded. Or burnt. Or melted. Or went fast or shot things. You get the idea. Here is one that everyone in my family knows about and for the most part, several members of the families of those involved.
Summers in Claytonville were fun. Jobs were easy to find if you were willing to work on a farm or outside, but work was work and that was not fun. Most of my friends and I worked only in the morning of the summer to avoid the heat of the day, leaving the rest of the day to use as we saw fit. One one particular day, we decided to beat the heat by holing up in a small copse of trees that lined a cornfield. It was your typical hedge row, with tangled Osage orange trees, horse-weeds, wild raspberry bushes and tall grasses all growing in the same small condensed area. It was located just a few hundred yards from my house, right near the railroad tracks that cut Claytonville in half, running east and west. (Debate still rages as to who lived on the right side of the tracks and who did not)
The little hedgerow had served as hideout, enemy territory, hunting ground, and a myriad of other purposes, depending on the mood and ideas of the boys using it. At this particular time, we (Tom, Mike, my brother Darryl, and myself) were using it as shade from the heat and as a private men's club, complete with manufactured luxuries, including a brick fireplace and grill. Despite the heat of summer, we stoked a fire in the tiny fireplace and were enjoying the idea of being men among men, having constructed our own man-cave where we could eat, sleep, and drink anytime we liked. Not that we slept there or ate there, but we did drink there. Soda. And lots of it! Especially root beer and Pepsi.
Empty bottles were scattered about in every direction. Neatness was not something that was high on our club's priorities. Suffice it to say that there were a number of them sitting around and eventually one of these empty bottles must have caught the attention of one of us. I am not sure who started it, but I recall that someone had acquired a bottle, filled it half full of water from a nearby mud-puddle, and had corked it with a mixture of mud and dried corncob, firmly shoved down the neck of the bottle. Said bottle was soon placed on the fireplace/grill and the fire increased until the water began to boil within the bottle, creating immense pressure that would finally result in the makeshift cork to fail and the water to fountain out of the bottle, much to the delight of those present in the little hedgerow. About 4 or 5 bottles were sacrificed in this manner before someone would take our idea on a wicked turn.
Most of the ideas that we came up with to avoid boredom were usually good at first, but then, some idiot, (always one of the usual suspects) would decide to escalate the idea to its most illogical ___________. (fill in the blank with words anything like; conclusion, explosion, concussion, piercing, collision, etc, etc.) Without fail, this is indeed what happened. The idiot in this case (or at the time and age, genius)was my best buddy, Mike.
Mike lived across the tracks and if there is someone who you will meet in these stories more often than not, it will be Mike. Mike was a good friend for me to have. He knew (as all best buddies do) how to push my buttons and made me stretch myself as a person. He dared (and sometimes forced) me to do things I probably would not have done. He was very outgoing and everyone liked him, but I got to call him my best friend.
Mike had stepped out of the hedgerow and had come back with a bottle filled to the top and well stoppered with not just mud and corncob but a hefty amount of clay, which could be found just about anywhere in Claytonville. (There used to be a brick factory that was housed on the ground were my house and outbuildings were located) He came back with almost a wild look in his eye, as he placed the bottle on the grill and added more wood and fuel to the fire. Looking back now, it was obvious what he had done, but at that time, it just did not seem like anything was wrong, at least at first. But then, we noticed, as the bottle started to show the first bubbles of boiling, that the liquid in the bottle was two toned, and that Mike was very cautiously, yet very deliberately, inching backwards AWAY from the fireplace and the bottle set upon the tiny grill plate. Normally, we would get close to things that were flaming or on otherwise about to flame up, but this time, it was different.
Call it some unseen or unspoken signal, some smell of fear, or maybe we were all realizing what might just be in that bottle that we all began moving back to a safe distance of, oh, say, 5 to 10 feet, but at the same time, still give us front row viewing for the upcoming show. And what a show it was!
At some point, the level of heat had made the "water" in the bottle reach the point where it would shoot the cork off. However, Mike had done a marvelous job at securing the cork in the bottle. So much so, that instead of shooting out the corncob cork, the bottle instead burst apart and released what, to our eyes, was essentially the god of HellFire! (There was much rejoicing.) When that bottle exploded, the water, and what ever else was mixed into it, combined with the air and created (Okay, now remember, I am trying to remember this with my child's eye and memory.) a column of fire about 6 feet around, and a resulting mushroom ball of fire and smoke that belched up through the trees (full grown) and out of the canopy for about five feet. After a cursory glance about to see if anyone was dead or bleeding, we all jumped up to survey the damage to our little club and congratulate each other on being present for such a show, much less on simply being alive and in one piece. Our fireplace and grill, and the fire within were snuffed out of existence. Dried grass on the ground and small leaves on the trees above us were still smoking, but for the most part there was little damage done. Once again, God had looked out for us and kept us safe, despite our best efforts.
It seems that Mike had traveled outside of the realm of regular mud-puddles and went to where there was a fuel refilling station that carried, home heating fuel, gas, diesel, and kerosene. This station was, like so many things, just about 150 yards from my house and about 25 yards (certainly more than safe enough distance) from where we were having our little experiment using fire and water. In huge tanks that were suspended horizontally on steel trusses, there was somewhere close to 500,000 gallons of fuel. These resided in a retaining pit, surrounded by only a grass berm, in which was an ever present pond of water that even on a good day, was about 2/3 water and 1/3 fuel mix. It was here that Mike apparently went to fill his bottle. (Thinking back on this, it is a good damned thing none of us ever took up smoking, because had we, eventually, especially with as much time as we spent in, on, or around this place, we would have dropped a lit match or cigarette in this pond of fuel mixture)
While we were excited talking about our most recent venture in to explosive experimentation, and discussing what it would take to rebuild the fireplace so we could do it again, we all heard the one thing that would make us freeze in fear, or annoyance. My mother, who normally worked during the day in the summer, happened to be home and was washing dishes in the kitchen. There is a window right next to the sink and unfortunately, that window looks right out in the direction of the fuel tanks and the hedgerow where the god of Hellfire had just appeared moments ago.
There is not a single friend of mine that will ever forget the shrill voice of my mother calling for me or my brother or any of their names from across the yard or tracks. Normally it was to call us home. This time however, it had a particular "shrillness" that conveyed both anger, fright, and concern. It only took one call from my mother for Tom and Mike to high-tail it across the track to his house to hide out and leave my brother and I to our fates.
For my brother and I, we had the unfortunate luck to have to go home after a parent had seen what had just happened and at the same time, have a the one person also in the house that for some reason, scared us more than our father. My older brother, David. He came charging out of the house and met us as we were coming back and proceeded to chew us out for doing some so dangerous and crazy. And looking back, I think he was more worried (and maybe rightly so) about the fact that we could have ignited over 500,000 gallons of fuel and in a blink of an eye, remove an entire town from the map. I would not be surprised if he didn't think that if we killed ourselves, he would have two less problems in the world to deal with.
But in the end, I cannot really recall what our punishment was for being part of the fireball incident, probably because I was so incredibly psyched up about being so close to something so cool. I think my brother and I got grounded, but being grounded in a small town is not really much of a punishment so it was kind of a wash and I as you will find out, no lesson was learned, except on how to make bigger fireball.
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