Back when we used to have vacations at the shore, I went out to the dock one night to try a spot of fishing. By and by, I got a bite–a very hefty bite. I reeled it in and was rewarded with a giant weakfish. I don’t like to think of how many people I woke up with my jubilant “Yahoo!” I returned to the house in triumph, and we got several nice suppers out of this.
Now it’s your turn! Trot out one of your favorite memories and post it here–only two days left in the contest, so do it now. You could win an autographed book or a custom T-shirt. Post ’em right here.
I was never much good at fishing. There were people in my family that seemed to be able to catch fish at will, but that talent passed me by. That having been said, I spent many enjoyable hours on lakes in Minnesota, drowning worms. There is little in life as peaceful as fishing on a calm lake.
I remember in grade school riding bikes with a couple of friends out to a large pond in the country and catching frogs, then taking them to school and selling them for a quarter each. Along that line, I remember in grade school have a permission note from my mom to go off campus at lunch. I would gather money from my fellow students and buy candy bars at the drug store across the street. I could get three for a time instead of one for a nickel. I cleaned up with that side business 🙂
You were born to be rich.
Lee, I have a memory (really a number of them) its 1,068 words from my book. Is it to long to place here?
I see no reason why you shouldn’t. We’re in cyberspace, so it’s virtually unlimited. Go right ahead–I look forward to reading it.
A Scenic Drive Through the City
My first car, a four-door, ‘63 Chevy, was the perfect mode of transportation to drive to work. One teenager on an errand for Mom or out for a drive by himself seldom gets into trouble.
Alternatively, it facilitated a means for a group of teenage boys to quickly get into mischief, skipping school, and heading to a nearby mall or a swim in a lake—these were some of our favorite activities. Driving around to the back of a lake cottage to locate a private gas pump, and leaving with a full tank; and supplying ourselves with plenty of beer and liquor before heading to a park. Now those were good times
.
Although the legal drinking age was twenty-one, we knew a liquor store in the seedy part of town where they ignored that annoying impediment, and we could buy whatever we wanted. Because we were all underage, we always sent Bill in to procure the needed beverages, for he looked a lot older than the rest of us. That part of town could be dangerous, so we always kept our eyes peeled for trouble. On one occasion, Bill entered the store just as two men got into a vicious fight outside, each brandishing a broken bottle. Seeing the commotion, Bill sprinted to the car, and we sped off.
One afternoon my brother, two buddies, and I were out driving, looking for something to do, maybe find a few girls to pick up and spend the day with. (I found my first wife that way.) As we slowed down to ogle a girl waiting at a bus stop, my brother loudly proclaims, “She’s ugly!” So, we continued driving. I didn’t think she was bad looking, so I said, “Let’s see if we can pick her up anyway.” We drove around the block and approached her again. I stopped the car and asked, “Hey, you want a ride?” Her definitive response was, “No, you guys are ugly!” We weren’t offended and enjoyed a good laugh.
We always kept a tire iron under the front seat, just in case. I thank the Lord we never had to use it. A favorite spot for teenagers and their cars was on Wisconsin Avenue, the main drag downtown, fondly called The Ave. The Ave merged into Lake Drive, and within a few blocks you would be cruising along the lake bluffs and beaches next to Lake Michigan.
As I recall, the hot spot on the Ave was six blocks long, with stoplights timed so you would catch every light … unless you went a great deal over the speed limit. My buddies and I were stopped at a red light. Bill took a dislike to the Ford station wagon next to us and said something uncomplimentary. Of course, the passenger responded in kind. As we proceeded to stop at every stoplight, the wagon always ended up next to us. By the time we got to the fourth light, the verbal barrage between Bill and the wagon’s passenger was red hot, with Bill hanging out the window, waving the tire iron around, and saying harsh things about their mothers, while comparing their girlfriends to big, hairy primates.
And that’s when things became serious. The driver flung open his door, jumped out, and pulled a long-barrel firearm from the back seat, and pointed it at Bill. It would have been nice to report that under threat of being blown away, my level-headed friend shut his mouth and sat back in the car. Not a chance! By that time, Bill, still waving around his tire iron, was in full berserker mode, a trance-like fury with yet more abrasive words accompanying his rage. Moreover, he wasn’t helping the situation by goading his adversary to do his worst: “Go ahead and shoot me, shoot me … go ahead …” Either the driver didn’t have any bullets, or at that moment was disinclined to kill anybody, for he jumped back into his car and hightailed it out of there.
At this point in time, none of us had gotten the urgent memo: don’t bring a tire iron to a gun fight. When the light turned green, I was still a teenage boy, short of brains, lacking common sense, and a six-pack short of a full case. Thus, I took off in hot pursuit. It seems everyone was in agreement, let’s get ’em. None of us knew the reason we were chasing them, or what we would do if we caught them. Though I had lived in Milwaukee all my life, I drove through parts of town I had never seen before, and soon got lost.
We arrived at a place I knew was a corridor for the future freeway, for a few apartment buildings were still standing. By that time, I had had enough and was about to give up, when the driver of the wagon slowed down in front of those apartments so his passenger could run into the building. The driver sped off, and I drove around the empty lot to head home. Just as I turned right at the last corner heading toward the stoplight, a hoard of men poured out of the building. They were armed with construction materials, glass bottles, and whatever came to hand. Before I made it to the red light, a bottle hit the top of my car and its contents splashed over the windshield. The mob were now within twenty feet or so and closing the distance quickly, when I asked my comrades an important question, “Should I go through the red light?” “Go, go, go!” were the energetic words that came forth from my fearless friends. What would have happened if those lads were part of a biker gang, and had their cycles parked out back? We would not have gotten away.
From soon to be published – “7,000 Miles of Life Perspectives: A Memoir”
Holy moly…