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.
Showing posts with label how to be a redneck kid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label how to be a redneck kid. Show all posts
Thursday, March 10, 2011
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.
Me as a kid - Part 1
Some of you may have seen the first few posts before. They were previously posted on Facebook in the notes section but this is more fun and I hate an empty page. I figured this would be a good way to start.
by Greg Stier on Monday, February 15, 2010 at 11:08pm
When I was little there was very little to worry about. We wandered in the woods. We threw rocks, shot bottles, rode bicycles, and swam in the creek. If I added up all the hills and valleys I climbed as a kid, Everest would seem short. It was a wonderful childhood.
I had company in sisters. There were three people around at any given time to fight, tease, scare, or disgust. I also had a little brother but he got poked and teased by the sisters, so I didn't have that responsibility.
I was an awkward kid, like most kids. I didn't really know where I fit in but I had a few friends and we had fun. My best friend Stephen and I spent a lot of time wearing a rut between each others houses. He was a real farm kid, with real farm animals.
I liked to go to his house and help. I saw calves and piglets birthed, pigs castrated, fed motherless calves, and rode horses. It was a blast.
We weren't real farm kids. We just lived in the country. We did have rabbits, but not the kind you could name and get friendly with. People came by to pick up dinner on a regular basis.
To be fair we had a pony for a short while. It came with the house. Sugar was his name and he seemed very big in my memories until I saw a picture of my father astride him. Dad was six feet tall and the picture shows his feet hanging about six inches off the ground. It's amazing what perspective can change. Sugar disappeared like several of our animals seemed to. I don't remember when. I must have blinked. It makes me wonder how much I missed as I drifted around in my little kid world.
Some things you never forget though. I remember putting on our oldest tennis shoes, cut off jean shorts and old t-shirts to swim at Anderson falls. There was a huge chunk of rock in the stream and we would climb it and jump, climb it and jump, climb it and jump... There were crawdads to catch, the falls to walk behind if it had rained recently, sand on the shore to dig and pile. Sometimes we would bring huge inner tubes from tractor tires and take a lazy ride down the creek to the bridge near the house. Frequent stops were mandatory. The minnows must be chased and, if you caught a crawdad, so must the sisters. If the crawdad caught you, it wasn't quite as fun, but the sisters liked it better.
The bridge near the house was a big metal truss affair which eventually received a wooden floor when the metal one rotted out too bad. If the creek was deep enough, we would hang from the under-structure and drop the ten or fifteen feet into the water. The carp that swam in the shade of the bridge would scatter downstream for a while until we left their lazy resting place.
When I wasn't in the creek, I was in the woods. Dad and Mom owned fifteen acres, half of it hills. I wandered every inch of it at one point or another. All the neighbors had the same kind of properties so we would take off on hikes across the country, no destination in mind and get there in plenty of time.
When I was thirteen, Dad got a Honda dirt bike from a guy at work and I spent the next three years pretty much riding that wonderful death trap. Stephen had one too and we tore up the woods making tracks. We would climb the steep hills to see if we could make it to the top or if the motorcycle would end on top of us. We went mudding in the swamp, crossed creeks, raced, and drove on the road when we shouldn't have.
At one point, I built a ramp, and boy, was it a ramp! I could get thirty or forty feet of air time on that thing. Stephen was pretty impressed but forgot to pull up his front tire. He got thirty or forty feet of road rash. Luckily the road was field dirt and not asphalt but he still limped for a bit and he was done with the ramp.
The motorcycle was my baby till I turned sixteen and got the Vette, Chevette that is, or in the parlance of the day a sh*tvette.
To be continued...
by Greg Stier on Monday, February 15, 2010 at 11:08pm
When I was little there was very little to worry about. We wandered in the woods. We threw rocks, shot bottles, rode bicycles, and swam in the creek. If I added up all the hills and valleys I climbed as a kid, Everest would seem short. It was a wonderful childhood.
I had company in sisters. There were three people around at any given time to fight, tease, scare, or disgust. I also had a little brother but he got poked and teased by the sisters, so I didn't have that responsibility.
I was an awkward kid, like most kids. I didn't really know where I fit in but I had a few friends and we had fun. My best friend Stephen and I spent a lot of time wearing a rut between each others houses. He was a real farm kid, with real farm animals.
I liked to go to his house and help. I saw calves and piglets birthed, pigs castrated, fed motherless calves, and rode horses. It was a blast.
We weren't real farm kids. We just lived in the country. We did have rabbits, but not the kind you could name and get friendly with. People came by to pick up dinner on a regular basis.
To be fair we had a pony for a short while. It came with the house. Sugar was his name and he seemed very big in my memories until I saw a picture of my father astride him. Dad was six feet tall and the picture shows his feet hanging about six inches off the ground. It's amazing what perspective can change. Sugar disappeared like several of our animals seemed to. I don't remember when. I must have blinked. It makes me wonder how much I missed as I drifted around in my little kid world.
Some things you never forget though. I remember putting on our oldest tennis shoes, cut off jean shorts and old t-shirts to swim at Anderson falls. There was a huge chunk of rock in the stream and we would climb it and jump, climb it and jump, climb it and jump... There were crawdads to catch, the falls to walk behind if it had rained recently, sand on the shore to dig and pile. Sometimes we would bring huge inner tubes from tractor tires and take a lazy ride down the creek to the bridge near the house. Frequent stops were mandatory. The minnows must be chased and, if you caught a crawdad, so must the sisters. If the crawdad caught you, it wasn't quite as fun, but the sisters liked it better.
The bridge near the house was a big metal truss affair which eventually received a wooden floor when the metal one rotted out too bad. If the creek was deep enough, we would hang from the under-structure and drop the ten or fifteen feet into the water. The carp that swam in the shade of the bridge would scatter downstream for a while until we left their lazy resting place.
When I wasn't in the creek, I was in the woods. Dad and Mom owned fifteen acres, half of it hills. I wandered every inch of it at one point or another. All the neighbors had the same kind of properties so we would take off on hikes across the country, no destination in mind and get there in plenty of time.
When I was thirteen, Dad got a Honda dirt bike from a guy at work and I spent the next three years pretty much riding that wonderful death trap. Stephen had one too and we tore up the woods making tracks. We would climb the steep hills to see if we could make it to the top or if the motorcycle would end on top of us. We went mudding in the swamp, crossed creeks, raced, and drove on the road when we shouldn't have.
At one point, I built a ramp, and boy, was it a ramp! I could get thirty or forty feet of air time on that thing. Stephen was pretty impressed but forgot to pull up his front tire. He got thirty or forty feet of road rash. Luckily the road was field dirt and not asphalt but he still limped for a bit and he was done with the ramp.
The motorcycle was my baby till I turned sixteen and got the Vette, Chevette that is, or in the parlance of the day a sh*tvette.
To be continued...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)