We’ve had a couple of really nice days here: 70+ degrees, clear skies, light wind. Not bad for having had an inch of snow on the ground earlier in the week.I remember days like these when I was but a small cub. I’d be out the door with a “Be back later!” to meet up with whichever friends the ever-shifting treaties dictated I currently had alliances with. We’d tear through the neighborhood on our bikes (banana-seats for the win!), heading for the pitiful collection of broken timber and discarded boxes we called our fort. There, surrounded by splintery walls which leaned drunkenly against a rusting chain-link fence, we would plan the next raid on the other gang’s demesne – a well-designed, adult-built miniature log cabin with a “secret” underground storage room. That’s in quotes because we’d all been part of that gang at one time or another, so we all knew about it. The purpose of the mission: to reclaim certain baseball cards, choice matchbox cars, or favored G.I. Joe figures. Yes…we could have kept them inside where they’d be safe from being looted, but where’s the fun in that?
An hour of planning, mostly taken up by arguing over whether our scout got to carry the Han Solo pistol (with real movie sounds!), or if the main strike force – all three of us – should have it. Since the scout already carried the walkie-talkie with the dedicated Morse code button, it was decided he shouldn’t have the gun, too. Not to imply that there was any sort of reasoned discussion. It basically boiled down to “You’ve already got something; I’m taking this.” punch scuffle
Cadging a drink of water from the nearest garden hose (let it run until it cools down!), we set off on foot, sneaking through the woods to the other side of the pond and into the back yards of the adjoining neighborhood. The scout was sent up into a tall pine to look for activity around the cabin, as well as act as an early warning system in case we had an encounter with the local group of older kids who roamed the neighborhoods randomly, killing time before their dates with actual girlfriends. Lacking anything better to do, they would lazily pick us up and threaten to throw us into the pond, or push us off our bikes into the dirt with that apathetic cruelty that comes with puberty. Caught between true childhood and true adulthood, their first reactions were to try and tear down anything that reminded them of themselves just a few short years ago – from their Hardy Boys posters and Bionic Man lunchboxes to their little brother and his friends.
The walkie-talkie came to life with a static-filled series of beeps. Our scout was painstakingly trying to send a message by Morse. Since none of us had memorized the code, he had to keep turning his WT over to read the guide printed on a sticker on the back, then turn it back over to send the letter. To make it even more difficult, he kept forgetting whether a short beep was a dot or a dash, so we’d hear his voice break into the stream, “Uh…hang on. Nevermind that last one.”, then a (presumably) corrected series of beeps. At this point, one of us would usually chuck a pine cone at him. We’d hit him more often than not, since he was only about seven feet above us in the tree we were clustered around. “Why didn’t y’all just talk?” I hear you asking. Are you kidding? We had technology! We weren’t going to just let it go unused. There were racetrack sets, miniature video game consoles, and electric candy dispensers that were just begging for those 9-volt batteries.
Movement at the cabin. We dropped down below the slight hummock at the back of the yard. It only covered a drainage culvert, but to us it was San Juan Hill. Cautiously, we peeked over the ridge to see the small terrier that was the family pet. Instantly, it transformed into a bloodthirsty German Shepherd to some of us, and an attack droid to the rest. A hasty, whispered conversation ensued over what to do about it. We had two walkie-talkies, a Han Solo pistol, and a “lock-picking kit” that consisted of two small screwdrivers. We hadn’t thought to bring dog biscuits. Several scenarios were suggested: wait until he left; throw rocks at him to drive him away; shoot him with the pistol. None were optimal. To help out, the dog came over and participated in the discussion, and we idly scratched his ears while we tried to decide his fate. He got bored waiting for us to come to an agreement and ran off to the pond to swim.
Congratulating ourselves on successfully negating the threat, we moved towards the cabin.
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