I was a solider. Well mostly.
Sometimes I was a pirate or a lone cowboy sheriff defending my small
town from a gang of bandits. Typically I
got the girl, though often I died valiantly (This was my favorite because I
could orchestrate my own funeral. Such
lovely words were spoken).
From
Caribbean seas and dusty Wild West cattle towns to the shores of Normandy and
VC packed Asian jungles, my backyard and childhood imagination took me across the
panorama of space and time. With a
simple flexing of will the tri-level landscape of a half-acre transformed into
the three decks of a nineteenth century man-o-war battleship. And, being Commanding General Admiral
Over-All-Fleets-Everywhere, it was hard work.
Capitan Carver
Steck, my sea-dog persona, ran from the bridge deck on the top tier of the yard
- where I shouted orders, manned a radio that hadn’t been invented yet, and
navigated the helm - to the gun decks - where I loaded, aimed, and fired all
one hundred cannon by myself - before rushing to the bottom level of the yard to plug holes in my ship. In times of
clear sailing this bottom deck became the party deck. It housed the galley with its long wooden
tables and free flowing spirits. There,
I, the captain, mingled riotously with the crew getting sloshed on 7-up and
Root Beer while trading exaggerated stories of holding hands with the Bavarian
barmaid our ship held on retainer.
One time
this lower level was the sight of my heroic death; while all my men escaped, I
single-handedly held back the in-flowing tides with nothing more than a mop and
my grit. Again, the services were lovely
and came complete with a 25 gun salute (I figured the additional guns meant I was
extra special), as well as floating wreathes and flowers thrown from the ship
and, of course, multiple heartbroken women. It was a grandiose farewell at sea,
although drowning really freaked me out so after that all of my naval deaths
derived from hand fighting with the enemy or an exploding shell. Why those ends
would scare me less I have no idea.