It's Gone by So Fast

Now that I've raised my three kids beyond the age of 18, I can say it seems like a long, twisted and bumpy trip down a water slide; and I"m now in a pool at the bottom looking up and wondering whether to savor the ride or take inventory of my bruises.

Ride like a Pope

We finally have a slob for a Pope. Growing up Catholic, I was turned off by the high reverence and at times even the celebrity afforded the daily mass-celebrating priests, bishops, and cardinals. Now we had the man in charge riding common buses to church this week. It made me recall of when I heard Joan Osborne's lyrics to "What if God was One of Us?" and I wondered why the Catholic leadership denounced it at the time, because, to me, it spoke of a person willing to be with the "least" of us, as Jesus asked us to do. So, now for that reason, I am energized by this gesture of Pope Francis's, which can only further connect non-Catholic Christians to Catholics, reminding all of their belief in Jesus. So, here's to humility:

What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home

source: http://www.lyricsondemand.com/onehitwonders/ifgodwasoneofuslyrics.html

Unkempt with Hemp

A panic attack can cause a regular marijuana user to quit, according to psychiatrists studying the effects of marijuana. This is good news. The bad news is that only a small number of regular users experience panic attacks. So, we have to continue to deal with this dimwit sector of our population, listening to their trite, pathetic entreaties to allow them to get high legally. It’s not unlike listening to a child rationalize why an allowance is an entitlement regardless of chores completed.

Tiresome are the TV shots of various groups speaking up for the legalization of pot. Invariably, whoever the spokesperson, there is the dribble of how it is not harmful and somehow rights are being violated because they are deprived of their smoke. All their points are made in short inarticulate phrases; even when longer sentences are attempted the result is jagged, hesitant, and often ungrammatical blurt-out. To wit, local Portland  TV media aired a sound bite from a pot-smoking granny decked in a green leafy costume at the annual Seattle Hempfest: “They discriminate us,” she said.

Their pleas are nothing more than a milder form of a the desperation from a pathetic addict selling out shoes and friends while begging for a fix: “Please, just give me the dope and everything will be okay.”

For how long?

One of the most traditional of arguments is that it does not harm others: “What I do to my body is my business.”

To this, I say get out of my way. At the risk of sounding selfish to that poor victim of discrimination, the pothead, after you smoke the pot in your parents’ basement -- stay there.

In the community college English classroom where I teach, I know who you are: you are the one who blurts things out that don’t fit into the classroom discussion; or you are the one who laughs robustly at something only you and perhaps another pothead find humorous; or you are one of the students who feigns attention but then gets narced out when called on and haven’t the first idea what’s going on. But mostly, you are the one who rarely does better than a “C’ because you can’t pull your THC-laden brain out of a sleep state, and you remain in bed until noon each day.

This being said, I am entirely on the side of the truly ailing who need the drug for comfort. Yes, I’m one of those who says it is a drug and should be treated as such – just like Vicoden, not like alcohol. And here is your opening potheads, let me have it, my hypocritical self, me. Say to me: alcohol causes disease, car accidents, and is involved in more crimes than marijuana, so why is it legal and not cannabis? Alright you said it, and here is what I say:

What you say is correct, and at the risk at stealing a talking point from the NRA, it’s people that misuse alcohol, not alcohol. So, you say, why can’t responsible people use marijuana, just like responsible alcohol drinkers? Well, because the culture of the pot smoker says that pot somehow is helpful to one’s well-being, and therefore the calm, mellow high they have going contributes to the social serenity of life for everyone. Ick. Pot smokers wake up in the morning to the bong in the living room, come home from work or school to that very same deity on the coffee table, and remain in a funk until they munch themselves to sleep. Frequently, day-in and day-out.

Next time when you pass Habitat for Humanity, ask how many volunteers smoked pot. Or, drop by a place where teen or adult coaches volunteer at a sports camp. Or for that matter, ask anywhere people are giving of themselves for the benefit of others. I’ll bet you get a lot of big fat zeros. Sure, you’ll see them at Occupy movements where the only work required is, well, to occupy space – something the potheads do extraordinarily well. Or, oh boy, do they ever turn out in droves – 150,000 at the Seattle Hemp fest – to support their own “right” to slump on the couch and puff their way into slackerville.

Being a little hard on the potheads aren’t you, Joe? Yes, because, like I said, they are in my way. I have family members and friends whose lives are going no where, and for the most part those pot smokers, whether it be to proliferate their numbers, or spread the good news of their ilk, are infesting more and more youth. I see the youths lose jobs or perform poorly; many with bright futures prefer the pastures of la-la land, and all this drains families financially, emotionally, and spiritually.

Got a lot of pent-up anxiety toward those who smoke weed, don’t you Joe? Yes, I do because I once was a pothead. Boy was I. I was introduced to the drug at age 14, and I stayed high daily until I was 16. That was every day. Before I started toking, I was a decent student, played ice hockey on a team, and had a paper route. Most importantly, I found I could make girls laugh, and at 14 girls were everything. Then two friends and I pursued pot instead. We “toked down” before school, skipped classes to smoke during the school day, and puffed more after school; getting a lid (ancient lingo for a $10 bag of pot) was the central part of our everyday lives. Our conversation, go figure, centered around how ridiculous it was that pot was not legal. Basically though, our lives centered around nothing else.

Well, you guessed it: Cs and Ds in school, no more sports, no more paper route. But there was hope with the girls. It must have been those short moments before I went to smoke a joint that I was able to put forth a kind of confident charm, and I realized some girls even “liked” me in the way of wanting to be my girlfriend. But I sabotaged this.

It was when I was just a few months older than 16 when I came out of the two-year weed-induced sleep. I started to feel “paranoid” every time I smoked. We three buddies discussed this and figured it was a part of smoking, and for awhile even looked at it as a good thing. It was part of the high, the high that also made fresh snow twinkle, nonsensical jokes hilarious, and long stream-of-conscious talking by one of us accepted by the others. Somehow the paranoia which produced anxiety around people was viewed as introspective and deep thinking when the three of us were alone together. I can remember the exact moment I knew the price of pot cost me my dignity. A cute blonde girl at the local Dairy Queen liked me. Her name was Sandy. We went to the beach together, and she seemed tickled every time I visited her at the DQ. Until one night. It was late summer and warm and, as usual, we three buddies met for a joint. I went to visit Sandy, but was very paranoid. I remember stammering, then talking in sentences with jumbled words. I did not even understand myself. As my panic grew, it became worse. It was like I felt the need to talk but had nothing to say. She looked at me bewildered at first,  and explained that she did not know what I was talking about. Then she looked frightened and mentioned that I should leave. I went home into my basement and did not come out until the next morning. I did not try to see her for about a week because I knew I messed up everything. When I did see her she was standoffish. I felt like a troll. But I never smoked pot again. I wanted the pot to get out of my way.

Is Telepathy Next?

Is Telepathy Next?

            Indeed, everything we need to know we learned on Star Trek. The notion that what is science fiction now is the reality of the future can be no more exemplified than how we have adapted the models from the voyages of the starship Enterprise.

            With this in mind, I am filled with great hope for the future of telepathic communication. As far as I know, other than a choice few who claim to be able to read the minds of others, we have come no where close to harnessing this skill and surely seem years away from this replacing the spoken voice as conveyance of ideas.

            However, I am heartened by the progress we have made; that being the plethora of technological advances that have put us on the rudimentary doorstep to telepathy.

            There were certainly episodes of Star Trek that dealt with aliens who possessed the skill to communicate telepathically. At times, they even exchanged ideas over great distances of space in seconds.

            This is encouraging to me because of the many devices we have developed which were merely fantasy at the time the shows were first broadcast in the 1960s.

            The first that pops into mind is the communicator, or, as we call it today, the cell phone. A handheld device that allowed us to speak to anyone over great distances, it flips open and requires no wires. What is especially hopeful here is that we have gone beyond to include Internet, texting, camera, global tracking, news alerts, and a host of media downloads (here I might add that refreshing disclaimer of anyone writing about technology: “this technology will probably be outdated by the time this is published.” Another note to the speed of progress: I am writing this on Word 2003 and my spell check is not recognizing the word texting).

            The cell phone, which now is an obsolete term because it does far more than just a phone, has entered and suffused our society in wide-ranging ways. Cheaper now than a moderate addiction to cigarettes, or a daily latte for that matter, cell phones permeate our supermarkets, offices, schools, and virtually wherever one is gathered. The other day, I was in my local Safeway browsing for the cheapest microbrew. A voice interrupted my perusal: “They have good prices on Deschutes beer today.” Although the words interjected into my thoughts, I did not look up toward the voice, or even think about a response. Why? It was probably someone talking on a cell phone. To my surprise though, there was a follow-up: “Have you tried the Buzz Brown Ale?” At which point, an index finger appeared in front of a six-pack.

            “Uh, no,” I said as I collected my thoughts and adjusted haphazardly for a possible conversation. “Actually, I like the Inversion better – it’s the same price.” The man, about my age and of the type who seemed to enjoy a fine beer as well as me seemed to be in a good mood and want to exchange opinions on various beers. But I had some  discomfortable with a person striking up a conversation with me in a supermarket, because it just did not happen too much anymore. So I took the Inversion, wished him luck with his selection, and went on.

            When I got to check-out, I wondered if I could have learned more about beer from the man. But then the woman in front of me was telling one of her children to calm down, so I deemed it more interesting to eavesdrop on her conversation than think about beer; even though I could not hear what her child was saying on the mom’s cell phone.

            Another  breakthrough we seem to be in the initial stages of is the Star Trek concept of beaming each other around. On election night, November 4, 2008, CNN anchor Wolf Blitzer talked to a holograph image of reporter Jessica Yellin. She was hundreds of miles away, but Wolf was able to talk to her image, a few meters to the left on stage, in real time as if she were there. Holographic technology has been around for decades, but I wonder if my teenage children would not longer have to bicycle, or drive to their friends houses but instead just invite them over “holographically.” They could talk, eat, watch TV, and possibly even play chess with each other, all the while, being apart.

            Though, we may have to wait until actual whole humans can be teleported because kids nowadays can already have a full visit with a friend without even being there. Again, Star Trek has given us the model. In many episodes, when Captain Kirk wanted to talk to an alien leader, the communication would start with Kirk saying, “on screen.” A two-way, real time conversation then took place between the two. In recent years computers have come with webcams where you can see and talk to a person thousands of miles away. Teens nowadays can view the same web site, type to each other, and virtually “hang-out” for an entire evening without having to leave the comfort of their own bedrooms.

            Critics would say that kids today are missing out on the exercise; especially when X-Box Live has allowed you to “play” a sport, via the Internet connected to the TV, against someone in a far-off country. “Why not play basketball in the driveway?” critics will lament. However, there is an answer to that too.

            We can now enjoy exercise via Nintendo’s Wii. The game simulates actual games such as golf, tennis, boxing, and baseball (to name a few) with persons holding the controller. For example, you can swing the controller like a tennis racquet and a cartoon character on the TV screen will duplicate your stroke and the ball will go over the net (depending on your ability) and the other player then hits it back, or not. These two people could be in time zones warp speeds apart. One can remember the episode of Star Trek where Kirk was getting punched by an invisible force, but Kirk figured out how to punch back and defeated his enemy. Again, thanks Gene Roddenberry.

            So, kids are able to communicate, see each other, hang-out with each other, even play a physical game with each other, and not even be in the same climate zone.

            And as I think back, I realize how fortunate kids are today. I often walked a mile to the nearest field or park where all the guys were meeting for a game of football or ice hockey. We did not even have cell phones. Most of the time, people knew gametime was “about an hour after school.” We came home with dirty and ripped clothing, had large appetites for dinner and talked about what fun it was. We couldn’t text our friends or get on My Space, or sit in front of a monitor and “play” a stranger. What we could do, though,  before we went to bed, was watch Star Trek and dream of a better future.

Big Poppa

Death without Notorious AIG

            I fought the Big Poppa of the insurance world and lost. I should have known better. In the end I was crushed by a slickly crafted letter from a “Consumer Affairs Analyst” mailed to the insurance commissioner in Washington State.

            My fight started in December, when, after 11 years of promptly paying premiums, AIG told me that I had to cough up an additional $210 because my “cash value” could not pay my insurance costs. So, figuring I was probably going to get more of these demands because cash values everywhere were dropping, and miffed because I didn’t know a company could just arbitrarily start demanding more money, I complained.

            Several weeks after logging my complaint, I received the response from AIG and the insurance commissioner all packed into a manila envelope with copies of previous payment records, policy details, and other pages of neatly punctuated sentences pretending to be in plain English. In the letter from AIG, analyst Janet Morris addressed my complaint against American General Life Insurance Company and refuted my claims with deft precision. So eviscerate were the writer’s points that the “compliance analyst” with the commissioner’s office, Dan Halpin, obviously in over his league, could only cushion the blow of my defeat with the bland statement: “It appears the company has a reasonable basis for their position.”

            As I skimmed the letter sent to the commissioner by Analysts Morris, I could see the legalese that brought us to our knees. Paragraphs began with phrases like “Please note the second page . . .” and “Our records indicate . . .” and other word groupings designed to show a surgical reading of the situation.

            Since my yearly premiums were $400, I had stated in my complaint that AIG raised my rates 50%. “Simply not true,” she countered, and then she pointed out that attached evidence would show that “. . . the cost of insurance for Mr. Van Zutphen’s policy has been increasing for the last several years.” Evidently this is where my cash value was picking up the difference. I don’t remember the salesman telling me this was the deal, but Ms. Morris, I’m sure would have a line of exhibits filled with mice type that I’d agreed to.

            I suddenly felt like I unwittingly applied for a subprime mortgage on my life. As  Analyst Morris continued to carve up my position like a smooth lawyer (In fact, it’s hard to believe she isn’t). She writes that the policy is a flexible premium policy and “premiums are determined by the policy owner.” (Huh? Why have they been taking an exact c-note every quarter?)

                       

            Not through, the talented analyst continued her written excoriation: The policy . . .provides specific detail regarding Cost of Insurance . . .” Sure enough, the documents Ms. Morris so kindly provided support this succinctly: You may have to pay more than the premiums shown above to keep this policy and coverage in force to that date (“that date” it states is my 95^th birthday). Gotcha!

            So now I’m applying for term insurance to cover the amount I lost, and oddly, even 10 years after the AIG policy, it’s going to cost a little over $400 a year, and be for $250,000. And, I feel more secure knowing that I wouldn’t be in my early nineties getting “pay-up $210” letters around Christmas time.

            End of story? Almost. I have a couple of points to clarify. You see, the insurance commissioner was not my first contact for my complaint; it was actually my last. After I initially got the letter from AIG, I thought this was a matter for my representatives in state and federal government because I’d heard AIG was getting more than $130 billion of taxpayer money. After all, there were $78 of expenses and charges I paid each quarter for their service. It says so right on the statement. (The fastidious Ms. Morris, I know, would agree – it’s in black and white).

            So, I needed Washington DC to know about this. I contacted the offices of my representatives, which isn’t hard to do nowadays with the Internet. Heck, one representative even sent my story to Rep. Ed Orcutt informing him that I was in Ed’s district. Anyway, my advocates in the legislatures, Joseph Zarelli, Mr. Orcutt, and Jaime Herrera; and Senator Maria Cantwell in DC (her office even phoned me) all had the same message( except Herrera who responded with a vague e-mail informing me about license plate renewals): This is a matter for the insurance commissioner. I then contacted the state Attorney General. Again I was told “call the insurance commissioner.” The buck being placed in my lap, I passed it to the insurance commissioner; evidently the only authority everyone believed could do anything. The politicians did their jobs. It was out of their in-boxes. But couldn’t they have chinked a little bit of glistening gold off the Notorious AIG? Couldn’t one of them, especially Cantwell, have sent my pedestrian paragraph of a story to AIG, or even send me one of those polite “Hey stupid” letters which diplomatically states that any idiot would know this has nothing to do with the bailout. To which I would have responded with “what are they doing with the $130B then?’ Worst case, it would have been a civics lesson for Joe Sixpack.

            Oh, there is one more thing. Although my policy lapsed February 14, AIG promptly took out $100 on February 19, continuing their automated withdrawal. I guess when politicians look the other way, AIG can force anyone to help bail them out.

Super What?

Super What?

In about four years, I hope to be standing at a podium in front of a group of people declaring with a smirk on my face, and a sigh in my voice, the good-bye proclamation of a professional athlete announcing retirement: “Wow! What a ride.”

In my instance it will be about parenthood. By then daughter Jenna will be 18 and off to college and sons Evan and Chad, to be 23 and 20 respectively, will need to buck up and take life by themselves.

When my wife, Peg, and I went to the “counseling” session about a decade ago, the therapist described us as part of the “new generation of super parents” because we both worked fulltime, and then used most of the rest of our time driving our kids all around to soccer, hockey, basketball, youth club, friends’ houses, and parties. I never took this seriously, and thought it was just our responsibility to do a better job than our parents, just like all young parents have done since the first rebellious adolescent declared everything parents knew was false.

The therapist was my wife’s (another story for another time) and I agreed to go along on a session to “understand” things better. It was about two minutes in when I knew I was duped. It was the standard question that clued me in: “Remember how it used to be when you first fell in love?” Yes, and I’ve done my share of listening to Dr. Laura too.

At that instant I remembered being at a presentation that recruited average Joe’s for selling water purifiers. “Does anyone here like money?” was the presenter’s first question. I felt like shaving a swath down the middle of my head , drawing a scar, and drooling right there in the front row. After all, that was the audience he was evidently speaking to.

Anyway, for the next 58 minutes in the therapist’s office we talked and she listened. I told her we have a hard time doing things all together as a family, which precipitated her “Super parents” comment. I then added that last week I was able to talk everyone into going to church. “Well, at least you’re doing something together,” she said, a reply that belied her belief in organized religion.

Although being a super parent was an obvious gratuitous comment to get us back for another $150 hour, I think about it from time to time. Mostly when I have to dissuade my teenagers from having something they somehow think they are entitled to. Not being rich, or even close to Barack Obama’s 5% above $250,000, I remind them that we are doing better than many in the third world who do not even believe they are entitled to food. In fact, I used to place a National Geographic picture of a starving child in front of them when the refused to eat something because it was green. I stopped because my wife said it was child abuse.

Although the therapist did offer some suggestions to get the family together: take short vacations, have family game night, and try to have family meals. The suggestions were good, but I am the only one in my family who enjoys routine. So, I lose. “Dad, we do not want to do the same thing every time – just because you do.” Being the good mother, Peg supported them 100% on that one. So we compromised. We took two short vacations a year and one five-plus day vacation. They weren’t usually so expensive: a night at a discount hotel at the coast, two nights in my well-heeled brother-in-law’s vacation home, and a week in Michigan staying with my sister. During these vacations, on holiday weekends, and at other choice times we played family games.

On the advice about family meals, I should have offered her a handkerchief for her drool, for it was not brain surgery to mimic a remark from the John Tesh radio hour. In fact though, I put the theory of family meals being productive unity times as (excuse me as I skip a generation) hogwash.

First of all, the therapist knew we were super parents. Soccer practice was at 6:30 and we got home from work at 6; piano and guitar lessons always seemed to only be available at 5:30; and what about the nights when hockey practice ended at 8:30 and kids had to be in bed by 9:30? Homework had to be done at 5:30, before practice. After all, super parents help children with homework too.

Come to think of it, what about school conferences, concerts, meetings, and exhibitions? They all happen at 7, but try to cook, set up, and devour a meal while picking up kids from daycare, changing everyone, getting what you need for the event, double-checking time and place, and scampering out the door. No, it was a snack and dinner later.

Nowadays, we have two computers where homework and My Space are practiced, two parents showing up around 6, and then the teens are off in their cars to youth groups and volleyball practice, or to shutter themselves in their rooms to knead their phones dialoguing with friends.

But, as I’ve said, I never really thought I was a super parent and still don’t. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t enjoy it when they all leave. You see, yesterday’s $5 bill is today’s twenty, and they never have time to maintain their crease in my wallet. Along with that is the perpetual discussion about what is and is not constituted as family expense versus allowance. I’ve recently been successful at moving movies to the allowance side of the ledger, but $30 was not good enough to go on an overnight trip with a friend to watch a gymnastic event.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my children very much, and they have provided great excitement and humor in my life. So, I will enjoy these next four years living with them, and then I’ll enjoy the next 40 visiting them.

Alley Pickin' Time

Alley Pickin’ Fun

            It was in the allies of Detroit where I experienced the joy of youth. No where else held the adventure and intrigue of a day’s journey through the gravel sanitation bypasses that split the backyards of the rows of houses that made up Detroit’s lower eastside.

            We’d start fairly early on summer day, pretty much after we discovered that we needed to think of something to do that day – which was most days. You see, there weren’t many scheduled activities. Little league games were once a week on Tuesdays; there was church on Sunday; and that was about it. Alley picking, as we called it, wasn’t really picking things out of allies and bringing them home as the phrase implies, although there were times when we carried a small bounty home; but rather, it was what we could do  in the allies that made this a day of fulfillment. And yes, it was a full day.

            Around nine or ten in the morning, Bob and Ron Rose would come by.

            “Joey, Mikey, Joey, Mikey, Joey, Mikey,” they would call at our back door, because that’s how you called friends. If it was us getting them it would be “Bobby, Ronny . . .” Then we’d tell Mom we were going alley picking. She said to be careful and away we went.

            One of the reasons it was special, I guess, was because of all the streets in our neighborhood ours was the only one without an alley. For some reason our back fence looked over our neighbors yard. So we trekked one block and entered the alley either on the Flanders side of Jane or the Loretto side. It didn’t really depend on a choice. The four of us walked and chatted away about a TV show, a sport’s team, an event in our home, an upcoming trip to a lake, or whatever the jabber of the pre-ten set thought interesting; then we would find ourselves in one of the two allies.

            If it was the Flanders alley the whole first hour could be spent at the entrance, for on either side was a three-story apartment building. They had dumpsters, but the big stuff had to be put on the grass strip just outside the fence. Here we would find discarded hats (how we never contracted lice I’ll never know) and various mop handles we used as swords to accompany the garbage can lids that made great shields. Usually a discarded chair provided the cushion when a knight drove his opponent backward into a theatrical fall. The carcass of the chair also made for a dragon to slay, usually stabbed so it could “bleed” cotton stuffing.

            What ordinarily ended these games were that the contest would result in a victor through some rules we argued through on the scene, or,  more frequently would stop suddenly when the apartment manager was seen headed toward the back gate.

            No matter the extent of our mischief, we always had one failsafe method of getting out of it: we ran. And we knew we could outrun anyone because we ran all the time. We ran home when we though we’d be late; we ran against each other to see who was fastest; we ran home on cold days because that’s how we could stay warm. When we had the slightest inkling we couldn’t outrun someone, we hopped fences. Inall the years I fled a scene by jumping over fences, I was never caught. Adults, for some reason, could not see the value in risking this feat for capture.

            Further up the alley, we focused on the mission of any alley picking trip: to find pop bottles. Big ones were worth 5 cents and regular-size ones were 2 cents. That was it. Only two sizes. Somehow we would find a way to carry them, but usually each guy only found three or four in a two-to-three-block leg.

            We never looked in the cans. It was some rule that moms put bones, moldy veggies, and unidentifiable leftovers in cans. Outside the cans on the grass strip that buffered back fences from the gravel ruts were the broken toys, including an occasional toy horse or swing; and there was never a shortage of disposed furniture. When we came upon a couch we often decided that that was “headquarters”   for the time being. It could have been headquarters for a team, a group of workers, or a band of explorers; but more often than not, it had military roots, especially since the availability of broken toy guns was so pervasive in the allies. We played war games, then made peace and fanned out as a team to gather food.

            Most times in the summer, trees laden with peaches, plums, pears, apples, and cherries hung conveniently over fences and were, indeed, easy pickings. There were also fastidious fence farmers – those who decided to plow the grass strip and make a garden – who provided cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. I never ate tomatoes at home but ate them from allies.

            In the rare instance when there wasn’t anything near headquarters, we’d go into the yard where there was a garden and fruit trees. We jumped the fence and grabbed what we could and then got out. If we heard the slightest noise or saw any sign of a resident, we’d run. One reason we never got caught was probably because the only people home during the day were the elderly and women. Both of whom viewed chasing a group of nine year olds as distasteful and possibly dangerous.

            Somewhere around lunchtime, we’d depart the alley for a corner store. Our neighborhood had a corner store on almost every other block. This was the highlight of the day. The owner would cash in our bottles and of the 15 to 20 cents we’d each get, we could buy chips and candy. One of us would buy a soda and in exchange for swigs we would all share our treats with him.

            One day after we bought our “lunch” we came upon the vacant field off Coplin. The weeds were about four feet high and we knew that we could hide from the world right there. We stomped down an area, then sat in the warm weeds chattering on about the luxury of our existence and eating candy and Fritos washed down with Sprite. Strewn about us were littered papers and it didn’t take long before my brother Mike confided that he’s taken a pack of my Dad’s matches and slipped them in his pocket.

            Of course the necessary thing to do was get all the papers together with other cardboard, throw in a few sticks that were lying around, then light it and see if it catches. Well it didn’t burn that well and seemed to go out before it caught on. We were pretty good at starting fires though. We blew on the red smoldering embers and held thin pieces of paper until a flame appeared. This time Bobby had an armful of papers which he fed me one by one as Mike fanned the growing flame. We got caught up in the excitement and didn’t notice the fire had sneaked onto a nearby dead bush – until it seemed too late. The bush caught onto the dry high weeds and traveled fast. We tried to stomp it out, but it was spreading to fast. 

            Very soon, Mike yelled out what we were all thinking: “Let’s ditch it!” As if in a practiced escape plan, Bobby shouted back, “Meet behind the bowling alley!” Mike and I ran down the alley and hopped the third fence to the right, and Bobby and Ronny hopped the fourth fence to the left. We ran high on adrenalin through the yard, down the driveway, across the street, into another neighbors yard, hopped into the alley and sprinted straight ahead. Later we learned Bobby and Ronny did the same in the other direction.

            After circumventing the direct route to the bowling alley we arrived out of breath. Soon after, Bobby and Ronny showed up. In the distance we heard the siren. We waited a bit then went home to dinner. The next day we visited the field on bicycle. We didn’t stop but drove by. Half of it was blackened and we never did find out if the siren was for that fire. We rode to the bowling alley, parked our bikes, and talked about how great of an escape we made.