Saturday Morning 1994.

I watched him intently. Every adjustment, every procedure, soon there would be a strong pulling at the cord and the weedeater would storm to life. Safety goggles on, ear protection protecting, close toed shoes enveloping, and tattered clothing of choice, my dad was always concious of safety. I take my fingers out of my ears and sprint past the dehydrator, drying rings of apples from the backyard, and an assortment of sliced bannana. Clipping the helmet on to my head, I make special attention to not pinch my chin. Adults never knew how to do it properly, so I always did it myself. I have scabs on both my knees and the handlebars on my bike are angled wildly and lacking any rubber grips on account of my stunt work.

Down the sidewalk I would race, through the back yard to Dr. Tates house, where she would be grooming her dalmations. Dozens of dalmations. Gunner her top dog, had won first place in the nation among dalmations. I sold her a candy bar last weekend and she handed it right back to me and told me to brush my teeth after I ate it (She was also my dentist). Tony, her husband, could be spotted in the distance Saturday after Saturday pushing an old grain silo over the hill toward the house with his old cranky bulldozer. He was going to be using it as a storage shed if he could ever get it close enough to the house.

It was finally 8 a.m., I time myself racing to Nathan and Thomases house. Seventeen seconds, new world record. I give my signature three knocks and Mrs. Newman lets me in. Like every Saturday she tells me to go wake up her boys, they're not alowed to sleep past eight. Soon enough I'm eyeballing the cinamin toast crunch and poptarts on the table. If I'm lucky, Mrs. Newman will forget I'm not allowed sugary things like this at home. No luck.

Mr. Newman enlists our help as soon as we step out the door, he is ready to mow the lawn and the trampoline will soon be in the way. After our chores and a few rounds of HORSE and Around the World on thier basketball goal, I spot my dad halfway across the nieghbors yard. A shrill whistle and a wave is all it takes to part me from my game. Chicken salad sandwich time.

No comments:

Contributors

Followers