Backyard Adventures: The Great Escape Part 1

“Steel, Sergeant, United States Army, 3-44-44-33.”

I sat with my back against the concrete wall behind my family’s car port; my arms stretched out and held by imaginary chains. Hid from the world, and more importantly from my mother thanks to the large tree that blocked the kitchen window from the backyard, I underwent torturous interrogations. Only three days prior my grizzled World War II persona had been captured following a disastrous trampoline drop behind enemy lines, and now, locked in a dark room deep within a Nazi POW camp, I was paying the price.  

“Uuse zee metal pipe. This time akross zee face.”

A uniformed guard wearing the dual lightning bolt patch of the SS obeyed the order. He walked slowly to a nearby table, picked up an old copper pipe from an array of tools, needles, and knifes and then, facing me again, raised his arm to attack.

I smiled and laughed, “Ha! You think I’ve never been beaten before? Never tortured?”

Down came the copper pipe striking me flush against the cheek. Pain seared from loosened teeth and a lightly fractured jaw, but I only laughed again and raised an eyebrow to the Gestapo officer performing the interrogation. “Where’d you find this guy, the flag corps?” 

Class Gives Me Gas

I had been sitting in the same chair for two hours, and I was only two thirds of the way through my once a week Intro to American History class. The gas pains in my gut were growing stronger and I knew that if the professor didn’t grant us a break soon that my delicate 18 year old frame would explode outward into a giant skin-ball before retracting into a black hole with my navel as the epicenter.

Fifteen more minutes passed and still no break. I only had to hold on for another forty five minutes, but the building pressure inside was starting to make me twitch with uncontrollable spats of seizure. My choices were limited—do the unthinkable and pass gas in class or die. I was young, only a freshman, so for me the choice was clear.

“I got this” I thought, “I’ve done it before. Junior year of high school, third period chemistry, blamed it on spilled sulfur. Just relax and let it happen. Wait till the pressure subsides, give it an exit strategy, and don’t interfere. It’s as simple as that.”

Backyard Adventures: Capitan Steck and Sargent Steel

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.

The Academic Benefits of Being Cultured

Quiz day in my Religious History class. Typically a piece of cake, but that day I was stumped on two questions:

1) Name the centurion who received a revelation about Peter at the same time that Peter received a revelation about him.

2) Name the woman whom Peter raised from the dead.

I had no clue other than the centurions name started with the letter “C”. But then the instructor gave two hints that saved me. The first was that the woman's name was also the name of one of the brides in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and the second hint was that the centurions name is found in Hello Dolly.  “Hmm,” I thought to myself smiling "why that's Dorcus and Cornelius."

Boom baby, growing up with three older sisters finally paid off.

Headless Horseman

Dull yellow light from moth-covered fixtures poured across the barren playground at McSorely Elementary School.  Stars blinked in the night sky and a sliver moon peered eerily from behind wisps of moving clouds.  A dreary autumn breeze chilled metal slides and occasional gusts caused the giant swing set on the lower level to squeak with dry shrills; its foggy shadow casting a skeleton tail across the darkened grass.  Through the breeze a shout was heard, breaking the October evening.  “The Headless Horseman rides again!”

My cousin John was in full gallop, myself astride his back.  We raced past the others and the jungle gym on our way back to the cars.  After a chilly night of games we were heading home.  As had been the strategy all evening, whenever we needed to get somewhere quickly I, who am dreadfully slow, would hop on my much larger and fleet-footed cousin’s back and away we would go.  Being a kid, I equated this to riding a horse, and, it being October, we both equated riding a horse to the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  Thus, every time John would let me hitch a ride that evening, one or both of us would yell “the Headless Horseman rides again!”

With surging speed John sprinted ahead, the misty autumn air being displaced by our ghostly figure.  Through the dark night we ran in what I am sure would have been a terrifying sight even to Mr. Crane himself.

Caught up in the moment I spurred on my mount with a stiff kick of my heels, pulling myself up as I did so to raise a fist and shout once again “the legend has returned! The Headless Horseman rides . . .” but that was as far as I got.  My poorly timed kick to John’s thigh sent him into a slow descent, his natural lope being thwarted by my interference. 

My Childhood Crush

At the insistence of my darling bride I share the following story of my first crush.

I don’t remember when I started feeling nervous around her, but it was long before my first memory that includes her.  In that recollection we were little kids, age five or six to my knowledge, sitting in a small, brown classroom at church suffering through another session of Sunday School.  The room, I remember, had one window in it that constantly teased me with thoughts of escape.  Through it I could see piles of rocks and dirt patiently waiting for someone to come outside and throw them around. 

But on that particular day she was in class so the pull to break free wasn’t as strong.  I did not know why but I always felt confused and anxious when she was around.  When she would talk to me the little Keebler elves who I imagined worked in my belly would stoke small fires that sent heat radiating up through my chest and into my face, causing my checks to burn and turn red. 

That Sunday found me perched on a display table in front of class, all dressed up in my little white shirt and tie, killing it, as usual.  I remember the day in part because of my own pride.  The jokes themselves escape my memory, all but one at least, yet I remember clearly her face looking up at me and laughing.  Giggling at what I can assume was an on day for me. 

She was sitting with the few other students in a row of chairs that spanned our tiny classroom.   The table I sat upon provided somewhat of a stage for what I considered to be my duty to entertain my fellow classmates and to offer something of a relief from the endless religious rhetoric that was heaped upon us during that hour.  My audience was starved for comedy and I provided. 

Our teacher patiently explained, “God caused darkness to cover the land.”  Then sensing an opening I jumped into the lesson yet again with a wave of my arm and an inquiry, “So if they can’t see how do they eat?” 

A quick scan from attentive face to attentive face told me that the other children were waiting to shower me with praise and with the laughter they struggled to keep locked behind gaping smiles, but first needed closure; a follow up statement to warrant their release of admiration.  At this point I realized that my desire for attention had once again outrun my thought process and that I had accidentally stumbled into a joke without yet knowing a punch line. 

This happens frequently so I did not panic, merely bought some more time for my brain to think through it by opening an imaginary fridge in front of me and acting out a blind man searching the shelves for food.  It was then I decided the only way to save the joke was to ignore the fact that one doesn’t need sight to eat.  “I mean, are they just gnawing on their thumbs while trying to eat an apple?” 

A quick demonstration with an invisible apple from my fridge and a sly grin to the others let them know that my witticism was complete and that I was pausing for their approval.  They obliged with an outburst of genuine laughs.  It was then that I stole a quick glance at her to see if she too thought my joke was a little funny and that’s when I saw the laughing and smiling face I remember.  That bright young face that is, to this day, so easily recalled through years of memory.  Round checks, long loosely woven curls of amber brown hair that framed her face in bubbly girlishness, and large, shimmering brown eyes.   Volcanoes, fireworks, and fabled scout water, or maybe all three at once, lit up inside my chest.  She thought I was funny.

             

   To be honest I felt somewhat panicked.  I had never felt so anxiously happy in all my young life and the feeling, while exhilarating, was uncomfortable.  But the uneasiness that made the feeling abrasive still wasn’t enough to make me desire it less.  In fact I craved it.  More than the juice box at the end of my t-ball games, I longed for her attention and admiration.  And yet, now that I had it with a simple Sunday School joke, I didn’t know what to do with it.

My face felt numb but I tried to hold a smile.  If the smile failed then my face would melt into an entranced stare, completely captivated by her subdued charm.  Couldn’t let that happen.  If I did then the whole class would know I liked her and soon that information would get back to the boys at school and before I could have a chance to explain myself I’d be labeled as a girl-liker. Neglect a trial and without representation, I would be found guilty of breaking the cardinal rule of kindergarten—don’t like girls.  The punishment for which consisted of an irrevocable stigma from the fellas and a standing cordon of one’s person as a cootie barrier.   

But I did like her.  And it was more than a “guys, settle down. I only like her so she’ll give me her cookie at snack time” kind of liked her, I mean I actually liked her. I’ll-hold-your-hand-if-you-hold-my-hand type of liked her.  And I knew it the moment she called my name to imitate my joke. 

Excitedly grabbing a similarly imagined apple from her own invisible fridge, she pretended to munch on both the fruit and her hand as I had done.  She then took it one step farther and tried to build upon the joke with her own addition. Playfully, she bit at her thumb until finally pretending to have gnawed it off completely.  She did a terrible job.  I mean, the premise of the joke had potential, I guess, but her execution was plain awful and no one else in the classroom laughed except me.  I even knew at the time that her gross addition to the joke wasn’t funny. In fact it was more revolting than anything, but her simple interaction with me caused a strange excitement within that I could only express through unstable laughter.  Our gaze held and the class ended.  In a microcosm of what would later be, she smiled and said goodbye while I tried my hardest not to care.

Now, decades later, this simple memory brings to me laughter and nostalgia.  It was the beginning spark of a childhood crush; which affections formed the base whereupon other appreciated memories were shaped.  Like the reminiscence of a middle school ball wherein my thrilled apprehension of her held me captive till when at last she unexpectedly asked me to dance.  Or the remembrance of how the high of that night was sent crashing to the ground when the next day I foolishly stated to gathered schoolmates that I had done nothing of note the previous evening.  She was in the group of students and her saddened countenance and disappointed expression punctuated my error. 

Our shared story, if it could ever be called such, came to an end even before the commencement of our high school years, and yet the lingering memories persist.  Not in a regretful way, but rather in the simple record of what was. As time moves on and childhood evaporates into maturity the shell of one’s past survives entirely in memory.  So while we both found the loves of our lives in persons not each other, the recollections of the first stirrings of romance do not fade easily from the conscious.