The Ride

THE RIDE

I haven’t been back to that hill in years, but the last time I was by there I noticed that the street had been totally blocked off. Barricades anchored in cement now stand guard like silent sentries. No more will kids do what we did that warm, sunny, summer day.

The three of us stood horrified at the top of the hill. My god, what would we tell Grandma when got back home?

We watched as Tommy slowly got up off of the ground. There was a flood of relief when it became obvious that our brother would walk away from that stunt. Not unscathed, but he did walk away.

Grandma had come out from Oklahoma that summer to stay with us. Our summer sitter had quit and our mom was not having any luck finding a suitable replacement. There were five of us and being our summer sitter was no small job, but Grandma figured that she was up for it.

Grandma liked coming to Denver. Several times a year she hopped a bus and came to visit.

There was a creek that ran directly behind our backyard. The kids behind us had the biggest rope I had ever seen. No one could figure out where they had gotten it. Rumor had it that several of the older kids had commandeered it from the truck of tree service working in the neighborhood. That big rope made a great swing, tied to a high branch in the huge cottonwood tree that grew on the edge of the creek bank. It did not take long for the rope, the tree and the creek to become off limits for us. It was mostly older kids anyway, with the younger kids having a tough time getting a turn on the rope. The older kids were mostly junior high school age and felt that gave them bullying rights. We and our friends got bullied a lot while trying to get a turn on that rope. In addition to those on the creek bank, there were always several of the older kids hanging out on the wooden platform that served as a tree house.

Occasionally, one of them even crawled out on the limb supporting the rope and while making like an orangutan tried to grab the rope while someone was swinging by. The fact that several wanna be Tarzans had missed and landed in the creek didn’t help matters either.

The last thing Mama said to Grandma that first morning was “they are not to be down by the creek playing on that rope.” Curses, we were hoping that she would forget to mention it.

Never mind though, we had another good idea for that day. Since grandma had just arrived over the weekend there were still lots of things that Mama had not gotten around to filling her in on. Grandma was in the kitchen that morning busy cooking, just like always. Mama always let her take over the kitchen when she came to visit and she just loved it.

That particular morning she was busy kneading bread dough. Bread was one of the first things she made when she came to stay with us. We all loved her homemade bread and looked forward to it. She would also make extra dough so that she could make cinnamon rolls for breakfast the next morning, another of our favorites. Daddy got them first, with his coffee.

We had this wagon, not your ordinary “Radio Flyer” red wagon either. This one had removable side boards that went around all four sides.

That morning, we decided to take our wagon up to the “Big Daddy” hill and ride down. The day was perfect, the sky was a cloudless deep azure and there was little or no breeze. It had been really hot, for early summer. However, this particular morning the temperature was pleasant.

The trees along the forbidden creek were alive with local wildlife, birds and squirrels and the occasional house cat out for an adventure. The creek bank itself was alive with grasshoppers, butterflies and rumored garter snakes. The weeds emitted their usual musty, sneezy smell that tickled the nose and made your eyes water.

We trouped into the kitchen that morning and told grandma that we wanted to take our wagon out riding around. She told us that Patty, the youngest, had better stay home with her. Patty didn’t appear upset about staying behind. She was busy with a blob of bread dough that Grandma had given her, she wanted to help knead the bread. So, with her admonishments not to be gone too long, we got our wagon and departed.

The hill was a long six or eight blocks from our house, so it took us a while to reach our destination.

While planning for this excursion, we certainly thought that we were going to be getting away with something. After all, Grandma still didn’t know all of the rules. We decided that we would all ride down the hill in the wagon together. We could take all of the side boards off and leave them at the top of the hill. All four of us would be able to sit in the wagon at the same time that way.

On the way to the hill, my brother Tommy, who was closest to me in age, announced that there had been a change in plans. He declared that he was going to ride down the hill by himself and that he was going to go first, even back then he thought he was in charge.

The rest of us would just have to wait our turn. Even though he was two years younger than me, he was going to have his way, there was no sense in arguing about it.

We stopped to rest at the bottom of the hill. It was very steep and to the eyes of children it appeared to be straight up and down. At this point, there was some discussion as to whether or not we should really go through with our plans.

Tommy was insistent, however, he wanted to ride down that hill in the wagon and he wanted to go alone, so we headed to the top.

There was a stop sign at the bottom of the hill. The cross traffic did not have to stop. The houses along the cross street appeared to be still and deserted, everyone one probably at work already. Only the occasional bark of a dog in the distance, disturbed the late morning quiet.

There was a vacant lot between two of the houses at the bottom of the hill. This vacant lot led directly to the forbidden creek . It would not take much to go flying through that small vacant lot right to the edge of that creek bank and into the water. Although, we realized that there was a certain amount of danger, it never occurred to us just how dangerous this stunt might be.

Tommy grew antsy, he was ready to go. We took the side boards off of the wagon and set them on the ground. Tommy edged the wagon up to the precipice of the hill. He placed both feet in the front of the wagon and grabbed on to the wagon’s handle. “Give me a push, you guys,” he commanded. We did and the wagon took off, as if shot from a catapult, rumbling and thumping down the street with Tommy in charge.

The sound was horrible. To me standing at the top of the hill, it was as if the wagon was going to shudder itself into pieces before stopping.

As I watched, a wave of panic crashed into me. That was my brother attempting to pilot a wagon that suddenly had a mind of its own. Suddenly, it was clear to me, this little adventure could have disastrous results. I started yelling at him “stop, put your feet out and stop, you are going to get hit by a car!”

Of course, I was not thinking about what could happen if he did try to use his feet to stop. That wagon was moving awfully fast.

My younger brother and sister who were up at the top of the hill with me, stared at the thundering wagon, not uttering a sound. Their eyes were so big, they looked like a pair of those moppet dolls. It seemed that the wagon had to be going at least a hundred miles an hour. Yet, at the same time the whole scene playing out in a kind of movie generated slow motion.

As the wagon shot out into the cross street at the bottom of the hill, I was still screaming at him. He attempted to put his feet down to try and slow the wagon, not a good move. The wagon hit the curb on the other side of the street with a very audible thud.

The impact toppled the wagon, end over end, but still Tommy clung to the wagon’s handle. He and the wagon skidded to a stop several feet into the vacant lot.

It seemed as if time stood still in those first few moments. Slowly, he began moving around and managed to crawl out from under the wagon. Once I saw he was up and moving, some of the immobility that had gripped me began to drain away.

“Come on you guys,” I yelled as the three of us went charging down the hill on foot, only to have to stop while Mark retreated back up the hill to grab the side boards that we left behind.

When we reached the vacant lot Tommy was sitting on the now righted wagon, inspecting the various cuts, scratches, and bumps that were now beginning to show up in relief. He looked just slightly dazed.

My youngest brother Mark observed “you look like shit,” and Carol promptly threatened, “I’m telling you’re saying cuss words.”

“Never mind” I said, we’ve got more important things to worry about. In my mind, I was also beginning to get concerned about keeping myself out of trouble, since I was the oldest and was sure to be blamed for the whole thing. I turned to Tommy and asked the silly question “are you alright?”

“ Yeah, I think so”, he said studying the blood that was oozing from both of his knees.

“Good”, I said, “now we have to figure out what to tell Grandma when we get back home.” We surely couldn’t tell her that we had gone to the “Big Daddy” hill to ride down in our wagon.

Finally, it was decided that we would tell grandma that we had been pulling the wagon as fast as we could with Tommy riding. When we hit a bump the wagon flipped and Tommy fell out, thus explaining all of the bumps and scratches. Not exactly a lie, because he did fall out of the wagon and it was going very fast.

Grandma believed us, or at least she acted like she did. Her only comment, as she dabbed peroxide on Tommy’s road rash was, “you kids have to be more careful.” Mama and Daddy must have believed us too, as neither one of them had made much comment, other than to ask what happened and to tell us that running the wagon that fast was not safe and not to try it again.

Later that night, we all noted that Tommy was going to be a walking scab for some time to come. We laughed at the vision that statement conjured up. Except, of course, Tommy who just scowled at us from behind his scabbed over nose.