Note: This post has no business being on a serious nooze site.
I had a most vivid, happy dream the other night. I was hopping down the sidewalk on my old pogo stick, on my way to–well, I couldn’t remember to where, when I woke up. So let me say Camelot. I’d like to visit Camelot.
When I was ten years old or so, I was a grand master of the pogo stick. If my mother ever could’ve seen some of the death-defying tricks I pulled–like hopping up and down the bleachers at the football field, or up and down the stairs, on my pogo stick–she would’ve had conniptions.
Anyway, there I was, boing, boing, boing, and wherever I was going, I couldn’t wait to get there.
I really wonder where it was. I really wonder.
I never mastered the pogo stick. It was pretty dangerous if you lost your balance. Bicycling was my thing – I lived on mine.
So did most of us, back then.
In the 80s my family moved into an old house that had an above ground cellar. It was always dark and scary in inside, so I never ventured very far. But I did find an old pogo stick someone had left. I had never seen one before then. They had pretty much gone out of style by the time I was a kid, but I got a chance to play with it until it finally broke. It was fun while it lasted.
The neighborhood fat kid finished off my pogo stick.