I promised, in an earlier post, to relate to you the easy way of driving a car through the back of a garage. I had forgotten this pledge until my lovely mother reminded me of it and how angry the incident had made her. So, as promised, the easy way to drive through a garage wall.
As I may have mentioned, when I eventually got my driver's license my Mom was kind enough to supply me with a Chevrolet Chevette to drive. For those too young to remember, a Chevette was a hatchback vehicle, mine was a four door stick shift. It had seen better days but still ran just fine and was more car than a lot of kids had.
The Chevette gave me mobility and also helped out my Mom. My Dad had passed away shortly before I got my license. As a matter of fact, my uncle took me to take my license test the day of my Dad's funeral. I guess they thought it would take my mind off Dad's death. It didn't but was a nice gesture. I have four siblings and they needed ferrying about. Having a second driver in the family was helpful.
A license and car gave me kind of a big head. I had the power and wasn't afraid to use it. In my defense, having four arguing kids wrestling in the back seat was disconcerting in a car that weighed hardly more than those four children. A firm hand was necessary. I also understood, then, why my Dad used to get so hot when we argued behind him.
When one of these arguments was going on, we were on our way home from town and the car was rocking back and forth on the road from all the silliness going on in the back. I had already warned the yahoos several times and the wrestling kept up. Finally, much like my Dad, I lost my temper and pulled over about a mile from home. I ordered everyone out. They were stunned into submission. Everyone climbed out and I took off. They made it home about twenty minutes later and never failed to calm down when asked nicely afterwords.
My sister, Barb, was closest to me in age. Only eighteen months younger, she was determined that I not have things my own way very often. As the oldest girl, she was a strong supporter of rank based on seniority. One day coming home from somewhere with Barb in the passenger seat, I was pulling into our "garage."
The garage was an open faced shed structure built to the side of another shed on the property. It was essentially a three sided pole barn. The barn columns were telephone poles and horizontally installed two by fours provided a means to attach corrugated steel for siding. It was a nice way to keep the rain and snow off the car parked inside.
As I pulled up to the garage, I noticed a bicycle laying on the concrete slab inside. In the interest of convenience, mine, I told Barb to go move the bicycle. She promptly told me where to stick it. We argued for a minute and then, disgusted but unwilling to leave the car and lose face, I opened my door and leaned out. I leaned out as far as I could but couldn't reach so I stuck one foot our the door, intending, I suppose, to kick the bicycle out of the way. Slowly, I released the clutch and the car rolled forward. I kicked the bike and depressed the clutch.
The thing about a clutch is that it removes the motive power of the engine from the wheels. It is not however, a brake. The car kept rolling toward the back of the shed. If nothing else had happened, I probably would have bumped the back wall and that would be the end of it. Nothing else did not happen.
As the back wall eased toward us, I had the bright idea to use the brake. To do this, I had to release the clutch. Remember the leg hanging outside? If you have never driven a stick shift, it is important to know that two legs are required to make the system work.
The other thing about a clutch is that when released, the engine re-engages with the tires and the car moves forward. Brakes don't work well when fighting against an engine. It didn't really matter whether the brakes worked or not though. I had missed the brake pedal in my panic and stomped on the gas pedal.
The end result was that the car fairly leaped at the back wall and through it before I got my leg back in the car and applied both brake and clutch appropriately. The front of the car and the tires promptly dropped off the back of the concrete slab and stopped.
That is the easy way to drive through a garage wall.
Luckily, the tires did grab the edge of the slab and the car moved back onto the slab. The two by four holding the siding wasn't destroyed, only pulled loose. The car had a minor scratch on the fender. The siding was kinked but not totally ruined. I patched it all up in less than an hour.
Mom was pretty hot, as I mentioned already but calmed down when she realized little permanent damage was done. There were some new ground rules concerning the driver and passenger responsibilities after that too.
Another positive note is that I got another little story out of the experience. Lucky me. Unlucky garage.
Showing posts with label dumb kid fun. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dumb kid fun. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
My Little Red Sh*tvette.
When I got my license, I was lucky enough to have a car to drive. I wasn't lucky enough to have a Corvette. Instead I had a Chevrolet Chevette, a sh*tvette in the parlance of the day. It was a tan four door, four cylinder, manual transmission vehicle. It had no pick up and a heater that took half an hour to catch up to the car. It was my ride though and I was happy enough to have something to get me around town.
My car was a symbol of adulthood and I felt like a big man in my little car. I was excited to be able to park in the lot with all the other cool kids with cars. When I looked around, most of the cars were as beat up as mine but we were all just as happy to be able to drive to lunch and make use of some of that freedom that comes with being a grown up. The option to eat off campus was a huge deal. It made the whole side of the city our lunchroom.
Like most teenagers I was usually in a hurry. I would play the game of trying to make up a little time by zigging and zagging around the traffic. It took me years to understand how self-defeating this practice was. I always felt like it helped but all it really did was stress me out.
One time my game got me in a bit of trouble. It was winter and I was heading home from school. We lived about twenty five minutes outside of town and I was always trying to shave a minute or two off the trip. It was part of the game. I came up behind someone who was driving incredibly slow. I sat behind them for a minute but then whipped into the next lane to pass.
As an inexperienced driver, I was unprepared for what happened next. My rear wheels kept moving to the left as the front wheels straightened out. I corrected. The rear went the other direction, a little farther. Each time I turned the wheel to correct, the rear swung out farther the other way. Eventually I was swinging at a right angle to the road each direction. I swung to the left and the slow poke passed me on the right. I looked ahead and the oncoming car was definitely a concern since I was in his lane. I swung to the right and the oncoming car passed me on the left. At this point, my car or possibly God had enough. I did a complete three sixty in the middle of the road and slid backward off the shoulder.
After checking my pants and saying a quick thank you, I pulled back out onto the road and held up traffic for the rest of the drive home. I learned to pay attention a bit that day. Sometimes I wonder that I lived past my teenage years though.
One time I lost the brakes in the car and went through a stop light honking and flashing. That woke me up and my sister too. Another time, I was having a little fun ramming snow drifts and suddenly the car stopped dead. The car wouldn't start and I got out after I popped the hood. I lifted the top, I was astounded to see that snow was packed to the top of the engine compartment. Every nook and cranny was filled tightly with the aforementioned snow drifts.
Steve, my best friend, and I walked the half mile back to his house to get his truck and towed my car back to the workshop to thaw. I got the opportunity to replace a timing belt on the car. It turned into a learning experience after all.
The first time I ever got pulled over was fun too. My middle sister was a real social butterfly. She was a freshman and got invited to the movies with her boyfriend and some other class mates. I was assigned to pick her up. When I arrived, Patti was surrounded by her buddies and wanted me to take them all to her boyfriend's house to hang out. I had reservations. As I mentioned earlier, the Chevette is a compact four door. However, in addition to being a social butterfly, Patti is persuasive. Shortly, there were two people stacked in the front seat, four in the back seat, and two in the hatchback trunk.
We pulled out of the theater parking lot and were on our way. Everything was fine until I tried to stop. Apparently the weight of nine people is more than is recommended for braking in a Chevette. When I tried to stop, I almost had to stand on the brake pedal to avoid tapping the car in front of me. The front of the car dived toward the road and the bumper may or may not have touched the pavement.
Unfortunately, there was a policeman sitting in his squad car next to the intersection. When he pulled us over, I could tell he was amused but he took issue with our lack of sufficient seat belts and my inability to see out the back of the car. Luckily Pattie's boyfriend lived close by and he just followed us to his house. After that I kept the passenger quantity to five or less.
Another time I'll tell you a sure fire way to put a car through the back of the garage. Type at you later.
My car was a symbol of adulthood and I felt like a big man in my little car. I was excited to be able to park in the lot with all the other cool kids with cars. When I looked around, most of the cars were as beat up as mine but we were all just as happy to be able to drive to lunch and make use of some of that freedom that comes with being a grown up. The option to eat off campus was a huge deal. It made the whole side of the city our lunchroom.
Like most teenagers I was usually in a hurry. I would play the game of trying to make up a little time by zigging and zagging around the traffic. It took me years to understand how self-defeating this practice was. I always felt like it helped but all it really did was stress me out.
One time my game got me in a bit of trouble. It was winter and I was heading home from school. We lived about twenty five minutes outside of town and I was always trying to shave a minute or two off the trip. It was part of the game. I came up behind someone who was driving incredibly slow. I sat behind them for a minute but then whipped into the next lane to pass.
As an inexperienced driver, I was unprepared for what happened next. My rear wheels kept moving to the left as the front wheels straightened out. I corrected. The rear went the other direction, a little farther. Each time I turned the wheel to correct, the rear swung out farther the other way. Eventually I was swinging at a right angle to the road each direction. I swung to the left and the slow poke passed me on the right. I looked ahead and the oncoming car was definitely a concern since I was in his lane. I swung to the right and the oncoming car passed me on the left. At this point, my car or possibly God had enough. I did a complete three sixty in the middle of the road and slid backward off the shoulder.
After checking my pants and saying a quick thank you, I pulled back out onto the road and held up traffic for the rest of the drive home. I learned to pay attention a bit that day. Sometimes I wonder that I lived past my teenage years though.
One time I lost the brakes in the car and went through a stop light honking and flashing. That woke me up and my sister too. Another time, I was having a little fun ramming snow drifts and suddenly the car stopped dead. The car wouldn't start and I got out after I popped the hood. I lifted the top, I was astounded to see that snow was packed to the top of the engine compartment. Every nook and cranny was filled tightly with the aforementioned snow drifts.
Steve, my best friend, and I walked the half mile back to his house to get his truck and towed my car back to the workshop to thaw. I got the opportunity to replace a timing belt on the car. It turned into a learning experience after all.
The first time I ever got pulled over was fun too. My middle sister was a real social butterfly. She was a freshman and got invited to the movies with her boyfriend and some other class mates. I was assigned to pick her up. When I arrived, Patti was surrounded by her buddies and wanted me to take them all to her boyfriend's house to hang out. I had reservations. As I mentioned earlier, the Chevette is a compact four door. However, in addition to being a social butterfly, Patti is persuasive. Shortly, there were two people stacked in the front seat, four in the back seat, and two in the hatchback trunk.
We pulled out of the theater parking lot and were on our way. Everything was fine until I tried to stop. Apparently the weight of nine people is more than is recommended for braking in a Chevette. When I tried to stop, I almost had to stand on the brake pedal to avoid tapping the car in front of me. The front of the car dived toward the road and the bumper may or may not have touched the pavement.
Unfortunately, there was a policeman sitting in his squad car next to the intersection. When he pulled us over, I could tell he was amused but he took issue with our lack of sufficient seat belts and my inability to see out the back of the car. Luckily Pattie's boyfriend lived close by and he just followed us to his house. After that I kept the passenger quantity to five or less.
Another time I'll tell you a sure fire way to put a car through the back of the garage. Type at you later.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Previously Owned
I was randomly drifting through the blogs, attempting to find deep thoughts and insightful comments when I stumbled on a blog called Previously Owned. I can't support or decry this blog because I went no farther than the name.
Honestly, my mind makes some strange connections and I wondered haven't we all been previously owned? I'm not talking about being a belonging. I'm talking about those pitiful pictures you see on the internet of terrible, hilarious problems befalling the average citizen. Sometimes labeled Pwned! or just Owned! I'm not hip to the difference.
I've been Owned! many times, luckily never on film. For instance, when we were kids, my Dad showed us the wonder of grape vine swings. For you city kids, this involves finding a tree infested with wild grape vines. These aren't the kind of vine you see in a winery. They climb to the top of a tree and can be a couple inches thick at the base. Here is a likely candidate.
Grape vine image
These vines can be and are used by redneck kids as rope swings. If the tree is strong enough, and the vine is thick enough, and you have an axe, and hopefully a hill, this activity is a blast. It is worth the chance of Pwnership!
Step one: find the perfect vine in the perfect place. If the tree isn't on a hill, the swing is pretty tame. The perfect vine will take the abuse of a couple kids jumping as high as they can and yanking on it. The less than perfect vine will fall on your head.
Step two: run back to the house and find an axe or a hatchet. A vine must be detached from its roots to be used as a swing. They kill the trees, so it isn't a terrible loss to get rid of a few. Cut through the base high enough that the kids can drag the vine up the hill a ways without the bottom dragging but not so high no one can reach it.
Step three: drag the vine up the hill a ways. I kind of gave that one away.
Step four: Grab on tight and run down the hill. Screaming is optional.
The result of all this feverish activity is that as the vine swings away from the hill, the ground drops rapidly away from the feet of the human monkey hanging on to it, and the kids have fun. The ride is exhilarating and much cheaper than Kings Island.
As you may have surmised, there are drawbacks, caveats, and fine print involved in this activity. Most of the time, no problem is encountered. Everyone swings a few times. A couple kids let go right away and slide down the hill, no big deal. Sometimes things don't go as smoothly.
Every now and then the perfect swing can be found on the perfect hill. The vine can be dragged way up the hill. The hill drops off steeply and the ride is super exciting. We found this swing. I swung it. Repeatedly.
Then there was a problem.
I mentioned that part of this activity relies on the strength of tree and vine. One way to reach the stress limit of either is to put a hundred pounds of weight on the end of the vine and swing it back and forth thirty or forty times. I was a crash test dummy waiting to happen.
My sisters and possibly a cousin or two were swinging on the best vine ever. We were swinging twenty or thirty feet out and about that much above the bottom of the ravine before returning to the hillside. The ground would disappear below and the feeling of flight would be upon the lucky child.
It was my turn and, as usual, I dragged the vine as far up the hill as I could. I ran down the hill, grabbed tight and flew out into space...
A supporting vine tendril snapped.
My heart jumped into my throat as my short life flashed pitifully before my eyes.
I didn't fall. Amazingly, the rest of the vine held and I continued to swing. It was a long drop and I was pretty lucky.
As I began to relax though, I realized that my return trajectory had changed. I was no longer swinging back toward the soft hillside but toward an apparently pissed off Hickory tree which was supporting the majority of this vine.
It's amazing how intimidating a tree can look when you approach it fast enough. Ask a drunk. Unfortunately, I was totally sober at twelve years old, I didn't have the benefit of blurred vision until after the tree smacked me in the face and chest.
Here's the odd thing. I didn't bounce off and fall. Somehow, I let go of that vine and I grabbed the tree trunk. The vine went away and I was left hanging twenty or thirty feet off the ground against a tree I didn't know how to climb.
Imagine this twenty feet higher
I was stunned for a moment, spitting bark and blinking rapidly to dislodge pieces in my eyes. When I realized I was still alive, I put the highlights reel back inside my head and looked around. I'm not terrified of heights but I have a healthy respect for sudden stops on hard surfaces. The ground looks much harder while hanging in a tree.
I was officially Pwned! Anyone with a camera could have had me on a web site in minutes and I hate to think of the video. Luckily, the internet wasn't yet in existence. Cell phones were the size of bricks and sans camera. After a few minutes of panic, I realized it was not necessary to understand tree climbing to go down. I loosened my arms enough that I had a fairly graceful if sandpaper-esque trip to the bottom of the trunk.
As with most things when we were kids, this only phased us for about as long as it took to tell each other how scary it was and how cool I was for having it happen to me. Then we went looking for another perfect vine, on another perfect hill.
Honestly, my mind makes some strange connections and I wondered haven't we all been previously owned? I'm not talking about being a belonging. I'm talking about those pitiful pictures you see on the internet of terrible, hilarious problems befalling the average citizen. Sometimes labeled Pwned! or just Owned! I'm not hip to the difference.
I've been Owned! many times, luckily never on film. For instance, when we were kids, my Dad showed us the wonder of grape vine swings. For you city kids, this involves finding a tree infested with wild grape vines. These aren't the kind of vine you see in a winery. They climb to the top of a tree and can be a couple inches thick at the base. Here is a likely candidate.
Grape vine image
These vines can be and are used by redneck kids as rope swings. If the tree is strong enough, and the vine is thick enough, and you have an axe, and hopefully a hill, this activity is a blast. It is worth the chance of Pwnership!
Step one: find the perfect vine in the perfect place. If the tree isn't on a hill, the swing is pretty tame. The perfect vine will take the abuse of a couple kids jumping as high as they can and yanking on it. The less than perfect vine will fall on your head.
Step two: run back to the house and find an axe or a hatchet. A vine must be detached from its roots to be used as a swing. They kill the trees, so it isn't a terrible loss to get rid of a few. Cut through the base high enough that the kids can drag the vine up the hill a ways without the bottom dragging but not so high no one can reach it.
Step three: drag the vine up the hill a ways. I kind of gave that one away.
Step four: Grab on tight and run down the hill. Screaming is optional.
The result of all this feverish activity is that as the vine swings away from the hill, the ground drops rapidly away from the feet of the human monkey hanging on to it, and the kids have fun. The ride is exhilarating and much cheaper than Kings Island.
As you may have surmised, there are drawbacks, caveats, and fine print involved in this activity. Most of the time, no problem is encountered. Everyone swings a few times. A couple kids let go right away and slide down the hill, no big deal. Sometimes things don't go as smoothly.
Every now and then the perfect swing can be found on the perfect hill. The vine can be dragged way up the hill. The hill drops off steeply and the ride is super exciting. We found this swing. I swung it. Repeatedly.
Then there was a problem.
I mentioned that part of this activity relies on the strength of tree and vine. One way to reach the stress limit of either is to put a hundred pounds of weight on the end of the vine and swing it back and forth thirty or forty times. I was a crash test dummy waiting to happen.
My sisters and possibly a cousin or two were swinging on the best vine ever. We were swinging twenty or thirty feet out and about that much above the bottom of the ravine before returning to the hillside. The ground would disappear below and the feeling of flight would be upon the lucky child.
It was my turn and, as usual, I dragged the vine as far up the hill as I could. I ran down the hill, grabbed tight and flew out into space...
A supporting vine tendril snapped.
My heart jumped into my throat as my short life flashed pitifully before my eyes.
I didn't fall. Amazingly, the rest of the vine held and I continued to swing. It was a long drop and I was pretty lucky.
As I began to relax though, I realized that my return trajectory had changed. I was no longer swinging back toward the soft hillside but toward an apparently pissed off Hickory tree which was supporting the majority of this vine.
It's amazing how intimidating a tree can look when you approach it fast enough. Ask a drunk. Unfortunately, I was totally sober at twelve years old, I didn't have the benefit of blurred vision until after the tree smacked me in the face and chest.
Here's the odd thing. I didn't bounce off and fall. Somehow, I let go of that vine and I grabbed the tree trunk. The vine went away and I was left hanging twenty or thirty feet off the ground against a tree I didn't know how to climb.
Imagine this twenty feet higher
I was stunned for a moment, spitting bark and blinking rapidly to dislodge pieces in my eyes. When I realized I was still alive, I put the highlights reel back inside my head and looked around. I'm not terrified of heights but I have a healthy respect for sudden stops on hard surfaces. The ground looks much harder while hanging in a tree.
I was officially Pwned! Anyone with a camera could have had me on a web site in minutes and I hate to think of the video. Luckily, the internet wasn't yet in existence. Cell phones were the size of bricks and sans camera. After a few minutes of panic, I realized it was not necessary to understand tree climbing to go down. I loosened my arms enough that I had a fairly graceful if sandpaper-esque trip to the bottom of the trunk.
As with most things when we were kids, this only phased us for about as long as it took to tell each other how scary it was and how cool I was for having it happen to me. Then we went looking for another perfect vine, on another perfect hill.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Me as a kid - Part 3
Originally posted in Facebook by Greg Stier on Wednesday, March 24, 2010 at 11:22am
I was talking to someone about the earliest memories a person can recall. We were comparing experiences. I was amazed at what I could dredge up from the depths. Most of my memories are vignettes, just little pieces of time from several years of my life. They are vivid memories though, bright clear pictures in my mind, attached to a feeling and an action.
I have lived in eight places throughout my life. I was born in Greensburg, Indiana and first lived in a house near Millhousen, Indiana. My parents rented a two story brick house where we stayed till I entered second grade. I don't remember much from this house, only a playset in the back, the milk box out front, and waving to a man on a tractor who was bush hogging the pasture next to us. Mom told me it must have been a farmer named Mente Ruhl who owned the property. The house is still there. One of my uncles bought the land next door and built a home there.
When I was two or three, we moved to a big white house near Westport, IN. There is a lot more available in the memory banks from that house. The house was a two story wood frame with white aluminum siding. It was surrounded by cornfields as far as a person, three feet tall, could see. We had one visible neighbor, across the road and up the hill. There were apple trees in the back yard and maples in the front. The yard was huge. Near the road was a concrete block detached garage with huge swinging doors and a dirt floor. To the right of the house was a barn with a haymow that Dad built stairs to reach. We used to play up there. I had an awesome toy horse with springs at four corners. It was ride'm cowboy whenever I was in the haymow.
Westport was where I learned to ride a bicycle, first down the easy slope in the back yard, then on the gravel road in front. It's hard to believe in this day and age of not letting a child out of your sight, but I used to ride as much as a mile or a mile and a half away from the house with my best buddy Wade Wiley, who's sister, Stephanie, I had a heavy crush on.
At one point, Mom and Dad added on to the back of the house. I don't remember much about the construction but I remember what it looked like when it was done. There was a Berber carpet upstairs, olive green and brown I believe. The kitchen counter was orange, bright orange. There was also a cool spiral stair to the basement. I remember the huge pile of dirt from excavating the basement too. Before it was graded, it was our mountain and our jungle. We would climb it like Everest and play hide and seek in the weeds that grew on it. The original house stairs had a landing halfway and we used to stand on the landing, reach down as far as possible and swing/launch ourselves to the floor below.
There was a blue metal fan that I figured out how to use making sheet igloos. By weighting the edges of a bed sheet with some of Mom's two million Readers Digest condensed books, and blowing air underneath with the box fan, there was an instant club house. We would crawl under the sheet and talk through the fan as it cut our voices into robot sounds.
We would sometimes sing along as Dad played the guitar. Our favorite song was Country Roads. It was our first request every time he pulled out the instrument. Mom and Dad loved to sing together and we were lucky to have that music.
I had the upper bunk bed and remember liking the taste of the wood railing. I scraped the finish off several inches running my teeth up and down it. I was a sleep walker as a kid. Apparently Mom heard a noise from my room one night and found me standing on my upper bunk, still asleep but believing I was in the restroom. I, apparently, got pretty good distance.
I first drove a riding lawn mower in Westport, not often or for long, but I did it. Today, I can't even let my ten year old on the lawn mower because he isn't heavy enough to keep the safety gadget, under the seat, from turning off the engine.
One time Barb and I raced around the house and as we reached the porch, I slammed into the wall. Barb hit half wall and half door. Her hand went right through the glass and cut her wrist pretty badly. I can still see the blood pumping out of her arm. That was intense for a five year old. I think it would be intense today.
I remember getting in trouble because a neighbor gave us a jar of dandelion jelly and when she visited again, I told her we still had it. I just didn't understand that not having eaten it would be a bad thing. We felt like we were in trouble when a big rain would make the basement wet. Dad would have us down there with huge sponges and buckets, sopping up the mess. It is my least favorite memory from that old house.
When I was six or seven, we moved to Bartholomew Co. near a town called Hartsville. We stayed at this house until I was halfway through college and the majority of my childhood memories are there but I still treasure the glimpses of life I remember from Millhousen and Westport.
I have lived in eight places throughout my life. I was born in Greensburg, Indiana and first lived in a house near Millhousen, Indiana. My parents rented a two story brick house where we stayed till I entered second grade. I don't remember much from this house, only a playset in the back, the milk box out front, and waving to a man on a tractor who was bush hogging the pasture next to us. Mom told me it must have been a farmer named Mente Ruhl who owned the property. The house is still there. One of my uncles bought the land next door and built a home there.
When I was two or three, we moved to a big white house near Westport, IN. There is a lot more available in the memory banks from that house. The house was a two story wood frame with white aluminum siding. It was surrounded by cornfields as far as a person, three feet tall, could see. We had one visible neighbor, across the road and up the hill. There were apple trees in the back yard and maples in the front. The yard was huge. Near the road was a concrete block detached garage with huge swinging doors and a dirt floor. To the right of the house was a barn with a haymow that Dad built stairs to reach. We used to play up there. I had an awesome toy horse with springs at four corners. It was ride'm cowboy whenever I was in the haymow.
Westport was where I learned to ride a bicycle, first down the easy slope in the back yard, then on the gravel road in front. It's hard to believe in this day and age of not letting a child out of your sight, but I used to ride as much as a mile or a mile and a half away from the house with my best buddy Wade Wiley, who's sister, Stephanie, I had a heavy crush on.
At one point, Mom and Dad added on to the back of the house. I don't remember much about the construction but I remember what it looked like when it was done. There was a Berber carpet upstairs, olive green and brown I believe. The kitchen counter was orange, bright orange. There was also a cool spiral stair to the basement. I remember the huge pile of dirt from excavating the basement too. Before it was graded, it was our mountain and our jungle. We would climb it like Everest and play hide and seek in the weeds that grew on it. The original house stairs had a landing halfway and we used to stand on the landing, reach down as far as possible and swing/launch ourselves to the floor below.
There was a blue metal fan that I figured out how to use making sheet igloos. By weighting the edges of a bed sheet with some of Mom's two million Readers Digest condensed books, and blowing air underneath with the box fan, there was an instant club house. We would crawl under the sheet and talk through the fan as it cut our voices into robot sounds.
We would sometimes sing along as Dad played the guitar. Our favorite song was Country Roads. It was our first request every time he pulled out the instrument. Mom and Dad loved to sing together and we were lucky to have that music.
I had the upper bunk bed and remember liking the taste of the wood railing. I scraped the finish off several inches running my teeth up and down it. I was a sleep walker as a kid. Apparently Mom heard a noise from my room one night and found me standing on my upper bunk, still asleep but believing I was in the restroom. I, apparently, got pretty good distance.
I first drove a riding lawn mower in Westport, not often or for long, but I did it. Today, I can't even let my ten year old on the lawn mower because he isn't heavy enough to keep the safety gadget, under the seat, from turning off the engine.
One time Barb and I raced around the house and as we reached the porch, I slammed into the wall. Barb hit half wall and half door. Her hand went right through the glass and cut her wrist pretty badly. I can still see the blood pumping out of her arm. That was intense for a five year old. I think it would be intense today.
I remember getting in trouble because a neighbor gave us a jar of dandelion jelly and when she visited again, I told her we still had it. I just didn't understand that not having eaten it would be a bad thing. We felt like we were in trouble when a big rain would make the basement wet. Dad would have us down there with huge sponges and buckets, sopping up the mess. It is my least favorite memory from that old house.
When I was six or seven, we moved to Bartholomew Co. near a town called Hartsville. We stayed at this house until I was halfway through college and the majority of my childhood memories are there but I still treasure the glimpses of life I remember from Millhousen and Westport.
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