Of Children and Pirates

The Tall Tale of the Pirate’s Treasure
A small boy with a nose full of freckles extended a crude homemade wooden sword above his head. Skinny legs, in rope tied dungarees’, a newspaper pirate hat covered his short curly dark brown hair. Overlooking the streets below the boy did not see the endless sea of rooftops or the flood of flowing cars. He saw only a steel gray ocean, the ships of his fleet rising and falling upon the salty waves of his imagination. He was the Lord High Pirate King; the manhole cover was his ancient quarterdeck. His two trusty mates, grim faced and stoic, were standing cross-armed on either side.
Such was what I saw that smog filled afternoon at the start of my nineth summer of freedom, adventure. All of which was also about to come to a screeching halt. In days long ago, when DVD’s and video stores were called books and libraries.  Video games consisted of repeating various three syllable words from some kindly kindergarten teacher actress type in front of the family black and white TV. or sporting balls and wooden implements or homemade swords for boys, or rag-dolls and the sometimes rare Barbie for girls. We were a poorer neighborhood and still unaware of any socio-economic prejudice until later in life.
A child’s imagination can be, and in my case often was, a boundless, powerful, and personally captivating expanse. I could get lost in it for hours. This wasn't always a good thing. Regardless of how good an idea it appeared to me at the time, it nearly never turned out as well as I had hoped. Such was the end game of my pirate adventure that sunny city afternoon.
It all started with cartoons and kiddies’ shows that Saturday morning I suppose. My buddies had come over and off we went. Out of the house and suddenly bored we were wondering how to spend the day. Foraging around the warehouses for ‘stuff’, or climb a few fire escapes and run the roof tops? Neither seemed particularly daring or exciting enough for me, as this was steady faire for us. I was the brains of the outfit; again this wasn’t always a good thing.
I grew up in a three generation old school Sicilian household, which to say the least, can be a bit stifling to a rambunctious and imaginative child, if not downright painful on the southern parts of one’s body. I mention this because of three of the trunks that my grandparents hauled over on the boat from the old country. After my Grandfather and Grandmother came through Ellis Island, with the eldest of my uncles and aunts, Gramps and Nana got real busy, real soon, and for a long time. We had a huge Sicilian family by today’s standards; thirteen out of seventeen kids survived six girls and seven boys. This would explain why these three trunks had laid in unattended peace for years, or in my mind, centuries! There nestled in the cobwebs and shadows, hidden in the furthest reaches of a low ceiling, century old bricked, dimly lit basement, lay three huge, dome shaped, metal strapped, chests in the scariest basement of all times, our basement. I suppose my mind had no choice but to see the similarity of these steamer trucks to the fabled treasure chests of ancient times, this was my first mistake.
Slumped down in the alley sucking down a cold Yoo-hoo from the neighborhood factory chewing on a Tootsie Roll the task had fallen upon me to come up with a plan of action. I honestly can’t remember if it was a cartoon, TV show, or some book I was reading that sparked the idea in my head, that an actual pirate’s treasure existed in my basement or not, but whatever it was, it was my second mistake.
So with some old newspapers and a head full of adventure stories we headed. To us this lot was better than Wal-Mart. over to ‘Our Lot’ an undeveloped lot full of broken concrete, glass and other discarded urban articles. We managed to spilt and old wooden crate in to something that sort of resembled swords and lashed cross bars near the base with some sun baked clothesline off a wheeless, overturned shopping cart.  We had already appropriated those for our ‘Go-Carts’, which was another in an ever growing list of not so good ideas, and also a story for another time. Everything we needed was right there in that neglected factory lot, and some things we could have done without as well. It did hold the beauty of possessing an ever changing inventory and selection.  To us this urban blight of a lot was better than any department store.