Childhood Tales of an Aging Gen Xer - Part I

Today I noticed, for the first time in years, the small scar on my left kneecap and it brought back some amazing (albeit dangerous) memories from my childhood.  The shenanigans I found myself involved in as a child leave me bewildered that I'm alive today!

I am in no way condoning the crazy stunts that my sister and I (and sometimes our younger brother), along with friends, tried as children, and if my mother is reading this, she may actually pass out or have heart palpitations.  Looking at my old scar (and it is old now), I'm enjoying re-living those crazy, fun memories.  I've named this "Part I" because the list of tour de force antics from my early childhood could easily be a book and I'm feeling quite nostalgic these days (unemployment gives one time to reflect), so I could go on and on in other posts.

Anyway, this particular scar was acquired around the age of 7 while zooming down my friend's concrete driveway in a red wagon. This was an activity we did every time we got together at her home.  I'll call her Alice as I've lost touched with her and wouldn't want to use her real name without her permission.  Our mothers would be inside Alice's house drinking their 3rd cup of coffee and going on and on about whatever it was they went on about without paying too much attention to us.  This red wagon became a propulsion mechanism to Alice, my sister and myself, the likes of which could only be duplicated by NASA.

We would position the wagon at the very top of Alice's incredibly steep driveway.  This driveway was so steep that you couldn't see the bottom of it standing at the top.  The three us us would climb in the wagon, and the "designated driver" (we took turns) would take the handle that would normally be used to pull the wagon along (at very safe speeds).  This handle we used as the steering apparatus.  Once we were all in, the "driver" would push off with one foot and we would go barreling down the driveway, approaching speeds I'm sure were close to 30 miles per hour.  The problem with using the wagon as a rocket was the brakes...there were none!  In order to stop, the driver would have to jerk the handle very hard to the side, which meant we were slung off the driveway, at a very fast speed, through the air and into the bushes.  We loved this!  I can still recall the feeling of exhilaration speeding down the driveway, everything blurry due to the speed!  One of us always got hurt.  It was given.

We were told on several occasions to stop doing this because it was dangerous.  Of course it was, that's why we did it!  The thrill was in our blood and we weren't going to stop.  On one particular launch down the driveway, we cruised so fast that we sped off of the driveway, down a dirt path, overturning on a bed of gravel just before sailing out into the main road.  This is the launch that game me my scar.  I lacerated my knee.  I don't remember crying.  I just trekked back up the hill, up the driveway, went inside (blood pouring from my gaping wound), got some iodine and a bandage, then went back out to see if we could brake even harder on the next trip down.

Maybe it was because we grew up during the cold war and there was the possibility of being bombed by the Russians at any minute (according to propaganda) so subconsciously we felt we should live life to the fullest, or maybe we just had a childish sense of being invincible, but as a child, I attempted (and usually succeeded) some really imbecilic feats without thought of consequence.  Looking at my scar right now makes me think, "Those were the days!"

-Fortuitous Observer

Note:  I'm taking the weekend off!  Be back Monday.