Jan-15-08 For this exercise, we were told to think of a childhood memory, a true one; remember everything we can think about it; rewrite it as a scene; don’t have to tell ALL the details, focus on the telling details; we can write from the child’s perspective or from our current one; try to create a picture in the readers mind.
I chose the memory of biking to Lake Ramsey in Sudbury one summer afternoon.
Stompin’ Tom Connors may have sung about “Sudbury Saturday Night”s, but at fourteen years old, I only lived for Sudbury summer days. Ninety five degrees in the shade (my Dad would have said it was a dry heat), crisp clear sky, little wind and a month away from my first year of High School, what could be better?
It was going to be the usual gang of four. Myself, James, Dora and Doug, we all seemed inseparable that summer, perhaps for the last time. I was your usual geeky, ninety six pound ‘boy growing into a man’ at an agonizingly slow pace. I would later hit ninety eight pounds for the school physical, making me the guy in the Joe Weider ads who got sand kicked in his face. James was only a year older, which meant he’d still hang around with us. Tall and lanky at that age, his body hadn’t nearly filled out yet. Black hair and dark olive complexion, you could believe his parents hailed from Palermo. His sister Dora was in my grade and had no problem hanging out with the boys. She was what we used to call a ‘tomboy’, back when it seemed necessary to have a label for a girl who enjoyed sports and the outdoors more than dresses and makeup. Having two older brothers in the family meant she could take care of herself. The presently tardy member of our little gang was Doug. Stocky build, fairly muscular for that age from working on cars and bikes, he was the type who dreamed of having his own motor cycle as soon as he was legal, and probably riding off on it, never to return. But on that particular day, we were just four kids looking for some shade, the cool lake and a few unsupervised hours.
“Hey, Doug! Come on! We’re leaving!”
We were all standing around in the back yard waiting for Doug. My house was your standard two story, red brick family dwelling. I’m not sure if you’d call it ‘attached’, exactly, but we were butt against a triplex next door. In fact, where we were waiting was underneath those balconies, which made it much easier for me to yell like I did than to actually go into the building and knock on the door. There wasn’t much in the yard. A cement walk way, which ran parallel to the apartment building, then ran up behind and beside our house to the driveway in the front. No real lawn to speak of, or if there had been, we had warm it out. The only other things in the backyard were one of those old metal swing sets that made your Father swear when he put it together, now a rusted shade of red.
As was our habit, we were taking our bikes down to Lake Ramsey and heading to our familiar hangout on the east side, where there was this little rock outcrop that we felt we had ownership of. It was on the other side of the lake, away from the families and children, neither of which we wanted a part of. A little more secluded, it offered reasonable blue berry picking in the bush nearby, some flat places for fitting a few towels and a nice little ledge about five feet off the water, which was perfect for casually flinging yourself off of in a manner that your Mother would not appreciate. The water was also clear enough and the boats far enough away, that you could dive for any number of treasures, usually comprising of old fashioned Coke bottles and the occasional license plate.
I was all set to go. I had a ten speed at the time, a Christmas present, if I recall, which I had made endless use of that summer. The usual Lake uniform was on … a nondescript tshirt,cut off jean shorts, with my bathing suit underneath and a pair of white sweat socks and runners. I’m afraid to admit, that I think my runners were a red velour material, but you have to remember, that this was a different time. With hindsight, I think I was probably the only one who thought they were cool.
Doug, panting a bit from running from the apartment, joined us around the back and we were ready to go. Ready in this case, also meant having the perquisite summer Lake supplies. Mine consisted of a small towel and my snorkel and mask, needed for that treasure hunting. All of this was stuffed into a plastic bag from Dominion Store, the local grocery shopping place in town, which hung down the side of the handle bars, just resting on the top of the front brake of the bike. It seemed we were finally set to go.
The back of our house met up with a gravel lane way which ran most of the length of the block we were on. On the other side of that lane, was an auto repair place who’s length was almost seven or eight houses long with a big rounded tar roof. We had to ride along the gravel laneway, out the back and onto Cedar Street, down the quick steep hill running underneath the Caruso Club, a local Italian social club, across killers crossing and then down the mini highway out to the Lake. Now, I should probably explain that ‘killers crossing’ designation. Where Cedar ended was an intersection that was infamous for the number of accidents and reputably, deaths that occurred. It seemed to have been created when City planners were out for one of Tom’s Saturday Nights, because not only did Cedar end there, but Elm and Larch Streets, three other minor streets, two semi major highways, and a set of train tracks. All in all, there were about eight different streets and a set of tracks within a few hundred feet, all controlled by about 4 different sets of lights in different directions. A recipe for transportation and pedestrian disaster, if you ask me.
Riding along gravel with a ten spend isn’t the easiest thing, what with the heavy stones and large potholes created by the rains and the usual havoc that harsh winters can wreck on ground in general in a Northern town. My insufficiently padded butt bounced up and down on the seat as I did my best to avoid the rough terrain. Holding on tight, with my bag bouncing up and down nervously along the front of the bike, we made out way slowly out the back way.
Finally on the paved street, we headed down the hill underneath the Club. Like many things in Sudbury, it was set up upon a harsh piece of Northern Shield that looked like it had been carved out with a large mallet. The street ran right up against a jagged face of grey rock with flecks of white quartz running diagonally from the base, up thirty feet to the mortar upon which a metal fence prevented anyone from accidently having a little too much home made Italian wine and hurtling off the edge. I’m sure it also prevented the occasional boce ball from crashing through a travelling car windshield as well. On the right of us, was actually a small cemetery, nestled between the rear of the auto body building and the street. Ahead, we could see the heavy traffic on the mini highway we needed to bike briefly along before making out way across the entangled intersection and over the tracks beyond which laid our wet relief.
With a good pedal or two, the four of us managed to build up some speed as the pull of the hill worked on our collectively weaving weights. Plans were already being made, diving expeditions envisioned, rock skipping competitions laid out and we were all looking forward to a few hours of fun and relaxation away from homes and parents and authority in general. The talk went back and forth without much care or concern. “I hope the rock is empty when we get there”, James said. “Well, we’ll just kick the buggers off if it ain’t”. Actually, I’m sure Doug didn’t use buggers exactly, but it sounded something like that anyway. As we careened down the hill, I was in the front, playing at leader, Dora behind to my right, Doug gaining on the left and James bringing up the rear.
Thinking back now, turning to the left to respond to Doug with an equally testosterone filled comment was probably what did it. Had I just kept my eyes forward and watched the road in front of me, perhaps what happened next would never have occurred. As I turned to the left, my right side naturally lowered to keep balance. At the same time, the wheel shifted to the right pulled by the left side of my body. At that instant, the bag caught in the spokes and was whipped around, jamming instantly against the bike fork. Physics and gravity took over. The front wheel instantly stopped, jammed by the bag’s contents. At that speed and on that particular incline the back wheel decided to keep its forward momentum. In order to do that, of course, it required me to go head first over the handle bars, like I was attempting a front wheely. I often wondered what it looked like for my friends from the back. But for me, it was instant. One second speeding, the next flying, like those images you see of car tests in slow motion where the dummies without seatbelts plow through the windshield as the air bags explode, except rather than in slow motion, someone speeded up the film. The next thing I knew, the bike was on top of me and I was scrapping along the pavement underneath it. Do you know what a cheese grater does to a hard piece of parmesan? Well, I wasn’t the grater.
It wasn’t a long ride and the next thing I remember is untangling myself from the bike and standing up, jolted and more in shock than I realized. Brushing some red wet sand off my elbow, I looked down at the bike and made some comment about getting going again. Doug, who’d obviously slammed on his brakes in a safer way and practically jumped off his bike to come over gave me such a look. I don’t know if his mouth was open, but I know his eyes were wide. “No. We have to go back”, and with that, he picked up the bike, put it atop his shoulders and started walking back to the house. I reluctantly dragged myself behind, picking up the ripped bag which now barely held together the towel and assorted supplies. The walk back wasn’t that far, but I was strangely numb and if I felt anything, it was the annoyance of having to delay our plans.
Up the cement walk way and around the back of the house, it seemed like we had just left. I came up to the side entrance, the one that lead either down to the basement, where my room was, or up the stairs into the kitchen and adjoin dining room. At the dining room table sat my mother, with her usual cigarette and coffee (she always claimed that hot drinks made you cooler in the summer). Now, I’d hear my Mother yell at me many times, but never actually scream, or in this case, I guess what a shriek is supposed to sound like. My Mother’s voice drew my Dad out of the living room with a “My gawd, what happened!”. Whether it was the shock, the annoyance or just that perceived teenage invincibility that prevented me from seeing what I looked like, but my parents were getting the view that Doug had obviously seen before hoisting my battered bike. It seemed like I had scrapped up the entire right side of my body as I had ground along the road under the bike. My right ear, chin, shoulder, elbow, hand and knee, pretty much anything that had been exposed, was scraped raw and bleeding. I only then seemed to notice the rivers and eddies of blood flowing down one side of me. I was like that Batman villain. What was his name? Oh right, Scar Face. One side perfect, the other grotesquely deformed by acid in a freak nightmarish accident which caused him to go insane and ravage Gotham City.
Well, needless to say, we didn’t make it to the Lake that particular day. I spent the rest of the afternoon, after many painful applications of water, soap, ointments, bandages and maternal care in front of my friends, lying on the couch with some comic books and ice cream. The bike, not quite so lucky, rested in the basement, the front wheel seemingly trying to make a right turn while the rest of the bike appeared to be going left. That would be it for bike riding for a little while. For both of us.
