Stories Archives - Page 3 of 3

The Great Sled Train Disaster of 1980 something…

In lieu of actual snow this winter, how about a classic sledding story, complete with a disastrous ending?

The year was 1980 something…I grew up on one of the biggest neighborhood hills you’ve ever seen. Seriously, unless you’re from San Francisco, not much could compete with the hill on Colonial Drive in Sapulpa. The hill was so steep, the school bus driver refused to attempt it. Bill would let us off at the bottom and my sisters and I would wave goodbye to the Beyers and hike to the top along with the Willes. We didn’t mind at all. Snow meant one thing in my neighborhood. Sledding.

My earliest memories of sledding are somewhat terrifying. I remember the Flexible Flyer, that awesome and dangerous mix of wood and metal, my mom or dad laying on the sled with me on their back and their admonishment to “hang on tight.” More like hang on for dear life. The speed you could gather sliding down that hill was breathtaking. And the more sleds that traversed it, the more packed the snow became. Not to mention if the snow melted off slightly, then refroze overnight, those tracks turned into unnavigable ice.

As we got older, we were allowed to sled alone or with a sister on board. My parents, perhaps because they got older, too, waved goodbye to us in the morning and told us to be back for lunch. It felt like sheer freedom to wade through the snow to the top of our hill and join all the other neighborhood kids.

We Train in Snow - The Great Sled Train Disaster - #Stories #LivingStories created sled trains, linking our Flexible flyers to each other by slipping the toes of our snow boots into the space between the metal frame and the wooden crossbar of the sled behind ours. We made trains up to ten sleds long and took turns leading them.

If one of the older neighbor boys led, invariably he would start swerving halfway down the hill, causing the few sleds on the end to swing wildly out of control until legs and toes could no longer contain the force and sleds catapulted up the bank on one side or, for the unlucky ones, the deep ditch on the other.

On one such snow day, I joined a train like this and convinced Natalie to join me. I was in third grade and greatly enjoying the break from Mrs. T.C.’s class. Natalie was a kindergartner who still trusted her older sister. Big mistake.

The oldest kids often went first on the trains since being the leader was the coveted spot. The leader decided if the train would swerve and how often, with the added bonus of an uninhibited view of the hill on the way down. A third grader was not nearly old enough to win that spot. Natalie and I took our position close to the end of the train with only Elizabeth, a first grader, behind us.

“Hold on tight,” I told Natalie as the sled train began to move. I put my hands on the snow covered road and paddled like a surfer, every kid doing the same to build our momentum. But with nine sleds and riders, it didn’t take long to gain speed. Soon we were bucking and weaving down that hill and Natalie and I were hanging on for dear life. I felt my leg muscles burning as Elizabeth’s sled swung behind us. I couldn’t keep my feet in position and finally released her sled, hearing her scream as the next curve swept her into a snow bank. I gripped my sled and hoped the kid in front of us would do better. We nearly made it.

We passed my neighbor’s house, whose steep property dropped off quickly into a deep ditch and ended in a frozen pond. The neighbors hated any sledding on their property, which always added to the thrill if you accidentally swung into their ditch or skidded out of control into the trees and pond.

I relaxed my grip a little as we passed safely by. Then the train curved one last time and I saw the pair of boots tucked into my sled lift up. I wrestled with the wooden crossbar, trying to keep my flyer on the icy road, but we skidded across the car tracks and onto the Gearheart’s driveway. And right off the other side.

A three foot drop greeted us and we thudded into the ditch. Natalie flew off my back into the snow. I landed on the sled but rolled off. I gasped and sucked icy air into my lungs, a sharp reminder I was alive. Then the smell hit me. The snow beneath me had turned to a brown sludge and the stench that rose from it reminded me of the septic tank when it overflowed. I stood up shakily and realized I was soaked in the goo.

Natalie was sniffling and had a cut on her shin. I was also banged up. Shouts greeted us from the road top. My other sisters and neighbors had finally thought to check on us and see if we’d survived. They surveyed us silently as we trekked out of the ditch, bloody and poo covered. Then Michael, the sled train leader, guffawed and the others followed. I tried to collect my dignity and hauled the sled with one hand and my sister with the other all the way back up the hill to home.

We were back on that hill the next day.

Images courtesy of Poulsen Photo, Suat Eman, and franky242 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Roller Skates and Handlebars

My grandfather could fix just about anything you put in front of him. After many years working at Otasco, he officially retired. Unofficially, he continued to tinker with items friends and neighbors brought by his shop at 801 11th Street in Mena. Toasters, lawn mowers, bicycles. Knowing how things worked, or having the curiosity to figure it out, was a huge part of who Clarence Roy “Foots” Lay was. Along the way, he collected many odds and ends other people no longer wanted. Grandpa often saw uses for things most people would consider junk.

His greatest inventions, in my eyes, were the scooters he fashioned together out of wooden boards, cast off old roller skates and handle bars removed from small bikes. These scooters were presented to my sisters and me just as the scooter craze revived in the late 80s and stores began selling the trussed up versions that sported mini bicycle wheels and bicycle handlebars.

Our scooters, painted red, blue and green, were unique in their construction, each a slightly different size. The red was the tallest, the green the smallest, but the blue scooter was definitely the fastest and the one we fought over the most. The metal roller skate wheels made a loud whoosh as we pushed up and down our long driveway.

The neighbor kids didn’t know what to think at first and made fun of these contraptions that must have looked a little clunky compared to the smooth new scooters they acquired. Undaunted, we held races and found my grandfather’s inventions to be just as fast, and the noise far more pleasing.

I remember Grandpa watching us race around on one of his visits. After awhile, he’d call one of us over, take the scooter in his hands, flip it over and pull a tool from his pocket. After tinkering with a screw or occasionally lubing the wheels, he’d turn the scooter back over to us with a grin. “That oughtta make you go a little faster,” he’d say with a wink and a nod towards the neighbors with their new scooters. Usually a race would ensue and I knew Grandpa was pleased to see his inventions holding their own against factory made scooters.

When my little sister eventually got one of these newer scooters, we took turns riding it, but we still used my grandfather’s scooters until we were too big for their wooden bases. I’m not sure what happened to those scooters, but they were so well worn they probably couldn’t be passed down to others. They’d served their original owners too well. Not bad for a few boards, roller skates and handlebars somebody else threw away.

Photo credits: “vintage bicycle” by foto76 @ freedigitalphotos.net, skates and scooters under Creative Common License at freeimages.com.

1988 Sure Was Great

I’d been waiting five years, half my life, to be a fifth grader at Liberty Elementary in Sapulpa, Oklahoma. Fifth graders ruled the roost and the playground, although certain fourth graders were allowed privileges, such as joining in the kickball games. I remember reaching fifth grade as the pinnacle of my early years, and indeed it was, as middle school would change so many things.

My older sister was a full five years ahead of Lindsay (my twin sister) and me in school. This meant she’d experienced the other teachers well in advance and was an invaluable source of information at the start of each school year. She knew which teachers were loved, hated or feared. She was as excited as Lindsay and I were when we found ourselves in Mr. Beltzner’s fifth grade class.

Jennifer had told us a lot of stories about Mr. Beltzner’s class as we rose through the ranks of the Liberty Eagles. By the time we reached his class, he seemed a living legend. Here was the teacher who held Pennsylvania Dutch day, emceed most school events, acted in local plays and singlehandedly started the Rocket Club, infusing a new generation with Space fever.

Mr. Beltzner turned 33 that year. As an eleven year old, this seemed a solid age for a teacher to be. Younger than my parents, but certainly much older than I could imagine being. On his birthday, Mr. B announced he was now the age Jesus Christ was when he died. I’d never heard a teacher say anything like that. It made such an impression on me that when I turned 33, I remember having the same thought, with the realization that 33 was nowhere near as old as I’d imagined it to be in 5th grade.

Mr. B was somewhat of a perfectionist. All his students carried spelling cards with them at all times. We added to this binder ring full of index cards every week, cycling through the growing pile, knowing any word could pop up on the weekly quiz. Although I already loved reading, it’s possible my love of words started here.

We memorized and recited poetry in front of the class. I remember muttering the words to Clement Clarke Moore’s ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and Edgar A. Guest’s It Couldn’t Be Done over and over, performing them in front of my twin, my parents, the bathroom mirror. The day of recitations brought excitement and terror. What if I forgot a word, stuck, with all eyes on me and nothing in my brain? But there was nothing like finishing the last word of that poem and knowing I’d nailed it. To this day, speaking in front of a crowd doesn’t bother me.

Mr. Beltzner’s enthusiasm for learning swept through the class and caught all of us up in its fire. Reading and the Book It program, Facts Master, science and rocket building, all of these became more than school assignments. I’d always liked learning, but Mr. Beltzner’s class fired my imagination in ways no teacher had done before.

I felt I could learn anything I wanted to and become anything I wanted to be. I felt invincible that year, on top of the world, and higher, since we spent so much time learning about space.

I’ve been lucky to have other great teachers, but none stick in my mind in quite the same way. Whether it was the realization that life was soon to change and it was time to seize the day, the haze of nostalgia as I remember my 80s childhood, or Mr. B truly was as incredible a teacher as my memories say, I wouldn’t experience another year quite like this in my school career.

We’re All Living Stories.

2014 sure had its ups and downs. One of the downs was the loss of my husband’s grandfather, the second half of a dynamic story-telling duo, along with his grandmother who passed away in 2012.

Fortunately, my husband’s grandmother had taken the time to record memories of their life together, beginning with how they met in the midst of World War II. Later she added another chronicle of her own childhood with information on her husband’s as well.

My husband remarked to me sometime around the funeral that it was hard to imagine that most of the stories of his grandfather’s life would die with him. And we are fortunate to have some of those recorded. My own grandparents more than held their own as story-tellers, yet I have little recorded. How I wish I did.

This thought came back to me again as the rest of 2014 passed. My life, my childhood, my parents and all those around us. Lives being lived out, eventually to be extinguished, and the stories with them.

My family is in the habit of making Christmas lists, and for Christmas this year, my husband put an unusual request on his list – one that went largely ignored. He asked for “your story.” Perhaps family members were puzzled by the meaning of his request, or more likely, swamped with other projects, as December can be the most wonderful time of year, but often the busiest, as well.

With the new year upon us, many bloggers around me are choosing one word to focus their blog, writing and lives on this year. I like this idea, as I always need more focus in my writing (and life.)

My word for 2015 is Story.

As a writer, I’m working on stories every day. This is different. This is a focus on my story, and all the stories that come together to make up my story. These stories are for me, but they’re also for you, for my family, my friends, even those of you who don’t know me. Each week, I’ll be blogging about a few of my stories.

After all, stories are meant to be shared.

Will you consider joining me in 2015 and writing some of your story, too?

Images courtesy of noppasinw, Vlado at FreeDigitalPhotos.net