It was my turn to get the mail...

My dad was a pretty handy fellow. Having come back from WWII, he was like most of the others of the Greatest Generation -- he wanted to get on with life, with living. He had a pretty good job and did what he could to make ends meet and give us a good life. Growing up, we moved a lot, going from house to house. Dad had a couple of them built and he would do lots of the work himself, especially when it came to fitting out the basements with rec rooms, workshops and the like. It used to be a joke in the family that he would get one done and tear it out only to rebuild it again a bit differently. He was usually good for two rebuilds per house and then he would get the itch to build a whole new house and move (See "Your Parents
Don't Live Here Anymore...").

Well, our first brand new house was built in a thick woods near the bottom of a holler - just at the base of a very big hill. In the winters he burned up more than one transmission in the car trying to get up that hill as the county plow/salt truck wouldn't usually make it around there for our house for about two or three days. It seems snow was a lot deeper back there back then.

Anyhow, getting back to my handy dad. He welded up a triangular go cart dealie-jigger for my brother and me. No girls need apply to drive it. We would run that thing down that hill, careening like wild boys to the bottom and then put it into a side-slide that threw gravel and cinders (remember the deep snows?) all over the place. We tipped over a few times, but having come to a dusty, dirty halt, we asked: "Is that all there is?" Not to be left wanting, we put up a ramp made out of cement blocks and an old wooden door. Boy could that thing fly. It's a good thing mom didn't see us try those first two or three attempts at "tricycle-shaped dealie-jigger flying" -- she was getting gray enough as it was. There would be plenty more of that for her from our teen-age adventures.

So what about the mail? Well, as you can guess, there wasn't all that much to do back there so as brothers would often do, we fought with each other. Being the smaller, slower of the two, I was usually on the receiving end. Now my mother, being the very intelligent lady that she was, would give us individual chores and rewards to keep us apart. One of those tasks was to go to the end of the driveway and get the mail. We took turns (no girls need apply) and this was a pretty good deal. Well, it was one of those days. My brother kept hogging the coaster and he ended up breaking a wheel. Now he was on my bike and mom wasn't paying any attention to my protests. We were in the garage, just about ready to get into it, when down the hill came the mail man -- I was on foot and he was on my bike -- AND IT WAS MY TURN to get the mail. Well, I took off running and he was not too far behind me on the bike. I was determined to get my turn in, so I yanked on the rope that pulled down the garage door and took off. All of a sudden, I heard this big CRACK. I was smiling from ear to ear. Success. My brother had run into the half-way-down garage door and cracked his head on it. I broke out in a rather pleased-with-myself walk, but peeked back over my shoulder to make sure my bike was OK and he wasn't running after me with a ball bat or something. Nope. He was holding his head (which really was bleeding) and mom was just standing there, eyes wide, too stunned to say anything.

My brother got lots smarter after that, and I got whacked when dad got home. Don't think it was his best shot though. He might have held up a bit because his #2 son started to grow up a bit that day.

When it's your turn, it's your turn!!

“Peace has its victories, but it takes a brave man to win them.” (Emerson)

Hooah