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"A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and does what he wants to do." - Dylan "Problems cannot be solved at the same level of awareness that created them." - Einstein |
Carbonboy's New Improved Web Log
Before the Girls - The 2nd Generation A. F. Smith Clan - From the left, Brothers Bobby, Ronnie, Dickey and Baby Roger on the far right. Cousin Jim (the blond) and yours truly, with birthday present in hand. |
Coming Next: Part IX - Far Niente
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In my small town in the Midwest, I grew
up in, perhaps, a bug perfect environment -- at least for a four-year old.
I certainly didn't know that at the time
and have long since lost my interest in bugs. Yet having lived in
places like Arizona, Florida and Georgia, I later came to realize that in
such places the bug population would overwhelm a small kid.
All of the bugs that a four-year-old
encountered in my environment were harmless -- at least if you knew to keep
your distance from the ones that could do harm.
And to keep things simple, the visible
bug population seemed quite orderly and seemed to come in pairs of bug
groups.
We had little brown ants and bigger
black ants, neither with the capacity a cause a painful bite (like some ants
I've encounter in the South and Southwest).
The bigger black ants made for far
better pets and were more fun to play with overall.
The brown ants could be tricked into
being moved into a "safe" location through an easy deception: flood their
ant hill with a garden hose and create a safe dry passage way into a large
jar full of grass and one could capture hundreds.
Of the stinging variety, we had also two
distinct types: the bumble bee and the wasp.
Bumble bees were respectable creatures
and slower than wasps -- so you could capture one, if you dared, in a glass
jar and keep it for a few days.
It was proper bug etiquette to always
poke a few air holes in the top of the jar and provide your captive some
food and a few sticks for him to crawl around on.
If your captive was entertaining
for a day or two, you might even let him out to live the rest of his life as
a happy bee.
Wasps, on the other hand, were pure
evil. Too hard to capture, they were simply better left alone. I
once sealed the entrance to a wasp nest under a broken tile on our garage.
When I later returned to check on my success, the area was surrounded by
dozens of angry wasps unable to get to their nest.
They seemed to know
that I was responsible for making them homeless. Sensing their
hostility, I ran to the safety
of my back door, narrowly escaping multiple stings.
There were some bugs just cute and noble
enough to be safe from a four-year old.
Ladybugs could be collected in a jar
with some greens and food and be kept alive for weeks.
I personally would never kill a ladybug
intentionally. Whereas I would have no qualms about stomping just
about any other type of bug on whim (especially spiders).
In the bug pecking order, there was one
that reined supreme as the top bug. That was the Monarch Butterfly.
They were OK to capture and bring into
school for show-and-tell -- but it was absolute taboo to kill or hurt
these beautiful creatures. If you happened to be lucky enough to catch
one on whim, the real joy was letting it go to flutter away.
We certainly had hoards of other bugs
that we encountered -- beetles from digging in the dirt, grasshoppers,
annoying mosquitoes and even the mystical fire flies.
I can't say what was really gained from
my bug adventures as a four-year old -- except perhaps to sharpen a
curiosity of the wonders of this planet even to this day. |
July 20 2003 (Updated August 23)
Cousin Jim & I - Twenty Years of Boyish Adventure
I don't think that we actually dared to cross the street, but we might have. Yet even from that distance, it was an awesome event that I've never forgotten. We'd have many adventures along the railroad tracks in the years ahead.
As faded as the memory -- Jim, Mike & the Wagon -- symbolic of future adventures (someday I'll clean this up with Photoshop) Both his first sister and mine came a bit later, so up until that point all the cousins were boys and I had plenty of cousins. Jim was born in May and I that same year in November, so when school started we were a grade a part. When his family moved to a house just a block away from mine, the adventures really begun. Learning to Fly Jim’s back yard had a perfect climbing tree. It was a pear tree, but I don’t recall the pears ever being ripe. A great feature about the tree was its proximity to the garage – an easy hop from a sturdy branch right to the garage roof (and conveniently out of view from the house). At first, we’d climb up on the roof and just take in the view down Logan Avenue. After that became routine, we took to jumping off the roof into the soft grass below. For a second or so, the sensation was truly like flying, the wind rushing through one’s hair and a slight feeling of weightlessness. It was an absolute rush until the sharp jolt to the ankles clearly demonstrated that the flight was over. We learned, like paratroopers, that once the feet made contact, a roll on the ground lessened the impact. And if both feet didn’t land squarely on the ground, one could expect a really bad sprained ankle. Once, we even incorporated our garage jumping into one of the many “shows” we put on for the neighbor kids. We charged them a nickel or so, and with my next door neighbor Larry to fill out the trio, we did Three Stooges routines. No doubt our profits went to things like Eskimo Pies and koolers (our term for popsicles). Ice Architects Most of these little kid adventures occurred during the summer. Yet a winter blizzard could be a glorious event. On one the side of my house was a narrow path with a tall hedge that ran the length of the property. That setup served as a wind tunnel during a good blizzard, making snow drifts taller than us. After the storm, the weather warmed up a bit to make the snow “packie” – perfect for snowballs, snowmen and fort building. In that huge drift on the side of the house, Jim and I constructed a snow cavern. After supper, in the darkness, he’d come over and we’d sit in the cavern with candles. It was bitter cold outside, but the candle heat made for a really comfortable environment and we felt worlds away from the house which was all of five feet from the fort. After a few days of melting and freezing, the structure was actually strong enough to stand on and our snowball arsenal evolved to iceballs. Even at that tender age, we had enough common sense to realize that these weapons were for imaginary enemies only – not other kids or cars. Winter on the Great Lakes also was magical but quite dangerous as well. The wind whipped choppy waves would form a thick crust of ice well past the jetties. The ice sculptures and mini-caves formed in the process were infinitely intricate and equally as fascinating. Yet venturing from the jetty to the ice could be perilous.
Once Jim fell through and was up to his
waist in frigid water. I should have just pulled him out but I
panicked and started to run for help. Perhaps he got a little boost from his guardian angel that day, as he managed to pull himself out and called me back before I got up the steep bank. I’m not sure who was more relieved when we knew all was well. It was my first encounter with absolute terror and I was the one safe on shore. Jim’s jeans actually froze solid on the walk home, making it very uncomfortable. I’m not sure if he got into any trouble for that incident but I don’t recall ever walking on that treacherous ice pack again. Chemical Creek and Beyond T he closest patch of a true wilderness to us as kids was a creek just down 8th Street past North Avenue. It was an odd sort of creek as it came out of a large sewer pipe (large enough to crawl into and explore).I'm sure at some point in time there was no pipe involved with this creek, but progress to the west of 8th Street made it so. Directly across the street was the back end of Calvary Cemetery -- an old dump slowly being converted into a landfill and now a nicely landscaped extension of the cemetery (I, for one, don't think I'd consciously decide to be buried on top of a dump). Across from the cemetery was North High School. Jim and I actually witnessed its construction and we knew that it was built on the very same dump! Further west was the town's first shopping center with a blacktop parking lot large enough to host the summer carnivals that came to town (no room for a creek there). West of that was a large plastics manufacturing plant and then the railroad tracks and finally some open territory where that poor creek probably resurfaced. Yet it was a real creek from that pipe east all the way down to the lake. It formed a large wooded ravine full of trees and brush, a world away from the affluent houses going up around it. There was a path along the creek that probably shifted from one side to the other or perhaps a path on both sides. But I do recall having to hop over some stones or fallen branches to make the long trip from 8th Street to 6th Street. The creek never really had a name until one day we started an adventure at the pipe and all the water coming out was red or maybe a translucent pink. I mean it was that color as far as we could walk! I'm not sure, but I vaguely recall a chemical odor on that day. We reported that event to our parents but nothing ever came of it -- long before the EPA ever existed. We knew it was the plastics plant and we never saw it red again. But the creek now had a name -- Chemical Creek. I bet we and the kids that we hung out with were the only ones ever to call it that -- unless some kids before or after us were lucky enough to see it turn red! Our favorite spot was were the creek entered into Lake Michigan. It was a large open lot with the creek winding in a deep ravine until it came to a large tree (perfect for climbing) and the sandy beach of the lake. At that tree a steep path led to the top of the large red clay bluffs that ran the length of much of the shoreline. On top, the grass grew high and it was very comfortable just to lay around and take in the view. The bluff itself was bare clay. Once, right below the grassy top, we dug two caves into the clay. We made dozens of red clay "bombs" and placed dry weeds in them to form the bomb's tails. We were perfectly content to hurl these weapons down on the beach, trying to get them into the lake itself. Then a group of boys, maybe three, came walking along the beach. We stopped and waited for them to get in range. Should we attack or just remain hidden in the tall grass? Well, we attacked -- and to our surprise they retaliated with an endless abundance of smooth stones from the beach. As we had the high ground we thought that all was OK until they actually started climbing the bluff. We retreated in great haste and by the time they reached the top of the bluff we were nowhere to be seen. We'd have many future adventures on that bluff, including finding seven cases of beer stashed hidden in the creek bed. We did the right thing and called the police (ruining, no doubt, one hell of a party). But we did manage to smash a few bottles into a fire we had going just to be defiant. Our exploration of the lake and rivers would continue for summers. Pigeon River was a massive step up from Chemical Creek and it had all sorts of new mysteries -- railroad trestles, crawfish, hidden forts, massive trees and blazing bonfires. Once we had taken our bikes along the beach further than ever before -- even past the abandoned Army Camp Haven I think. Exhausted from pedaling on the wet sand, we climbed a tall bluff to rest. Like us all, I have countless memories of the past, but on this one occasion, venturing further than ever before, I remember a new sensation -- the distinct and overwhelming sensation of awe, mystery and peacefulness while sitting on that high bluff, a warm summer breeze blowing off the lake with my comrade adventurer. It had to be like the great explorers of the past, going places no other person had gone, with only new and greater vista's ahead. We could have set up camp here and stayed the night. That camp could have become a trading post and later a thriving city had we been true, grown-up explorers. But only half the journey was complete -- we slowly pedaled and later walked our bikes back home. I recall asking for three helping of what seemed to be the greatest meal my mom ever cooked that night. Never have we pushed so hard that day and never did it feel so good to be home -- except for maybe one other major adventure -- rafting from Volrath Park out onto the lake past the North Pier, into the harbor and up the river all the way to Kiwanis Park. Oh what a sunburn and sore arm event that was (not to mention that being our greatest adventure). And who could ever imagine that our adventures would continue, in one form or another, well into our early adulthood. Jim later got married and I moved to California and that seemed to be the end of our adventures. End of story, end of childhood. The last time I saw Jim was at my father's funeral. Afterward we were sitting in my parents dining room (the same room pictured below) with my cousin Danny from Chicago. Jim said that the room really looked small. He was right, but as kids it was just a room -- a room and a house and a neighborhood full of memories. I just sold that house for my mother last month to a young couple that, hopefully, will have a whole new set of memories in their first house.
Another birthday in the dining room - me eyeing my mom's chocolate cake (my favorite) and Jim with hand on hat. That day, Jim gave me an old Polaroid photo from our days right after high school -- a photo that any normal person would care to forget. I guess it reinforces the reality that our adventures continued until we were forced to grow up. We talked a little about the past and he said he'd remembered everything. I do to Jim -- at least almost everything. That was over ten years ago. I think during my next visit to my mother I'll be giving Jim a call -- in fact I know that I will.
Wild Bill, Tommy and I acting goofy before we decided to grow up - Photo by Cousin Jim Postscript: It seems my little sister, one of my avid readers, got a hold of Jim and directed him to this web page. He since emailed me and I him. Unlike the Donny Laing Story, this one still continues - right Jim? It seems I'll have a collaborator for future stories of past adventures. Coming Adventures: Learning to Swim Inner Tube Raft Journey Coming of Age - The Surf Kings Summer with Andrea, Susie & Jackie Double Dating - The First Kiss The James Gang . . . and more. |
The Logical Song
When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful, a miracle, oh it
was beautiful, magical. And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily, joyfully, playfully watching me. But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible, logical, responsible, practical. And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable, clinical,
intellectual, cynical. Won't
you please, please tell me what we've learned liberal, fanatical, criminal. Won't
you sign up your name, we'd like to feel you're respectable,
presentable, a vegetable! Won't
you please, please tell me what we've learned Dreamer
Dreamer, you know you
are a dreamer Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no! I said dreamer, you’re nothing but a dreamer Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no! I said ’far out, - what a day, a year, a laugh it is!’ You know, - well you know you had it comin’ to you,
Now there’s not a lot I can do So now you put your head in your hands, oh no! I said ’far out, - what a day, a year, a laugh it is!’ You know, - well you know you had it comin’ to you,
Now there’s not a lot I can do.
If I could be someone
If I could do something
If I could do anything Take a life, take a holiday Take a lie, take a dreamer Dream, dream, dream, dream, dream along...
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