When Scott got cheeky

Everyone has examples.  Those humorous moments so darn funny that when we remember them now, years later, we still involuntarily giggle.

Like when I tried to say “Croissan’Wich” to a Burger King order taker at a Michigan drive-through and failed miserably – so miserably that, to my family’s horror, I laughed uncontrollably. It took four teary-eyed minutes of sounding like Winthrop, the lispy youngster in “The Music Man,” to complete the order.  “Qua-than … no, that’s not right. Coss-and- … damn, no! …”

Or when I shot coffee through my nose when my mother-in-law proudly proclaimed, “I had brains once.” (We were discussing different cuts of meat.)

Or when my geology teacher in junior high school pulled down a map of the globe and there, taped to it, in splendid color, was a Playboy centerfold. 

Miss February, I believe.

One of the best, though, happened at the Webster Groves Memorial Pool.  It was summer time in St. Louis. If you know summer in St. Louis, you know it’s hot and humid. The best place to be is at the pool.

Webster is a close-in St. Louis suburb, where we lived.

I was maybe eight years old.  Mom had dropped me off to swim.  I met my friend Scott  there.  Scott was a tall, skinny kid. His older brother Steve was there as well, though because he was older, he hung out at the deeper end. Scott and I … well, we favored the shallow.

Now, it’s inevitable that older brothers will eventually come after younger. It’s the nature of things. And it happened here.  Steve came looking for Scott, to tease and dunk. He began chasing him, charging through the three-foot depth, making massive waves. 

Scott was pretty sly.  He’d spin and weave, dive under and above, splash water into Steve’s eyes. But size and age were against him. Eventually, Steve herded Scott to the pool’s northwest corner.

Scott had one means of escape: Scurry up the ladder to the safety of the deck.  He lunged to grab the ladder.

But Steve, also tall and skinny, was stronger, faster.  Just as Scott pulled himself up the ladder, Steve did the only thing he could – grab Scott’s suit.

Scott, though, had a fast hold on the ladder; he was headed up, no matter what.  Steve was falling back to the water, reeling in his catch … no matter what.

Scott’s bathing suit gave way. 

Now, it didn’t rip free from his body like an actor’s tear-away shirt.  Nor did it peel away, like the skin off a banana.

It was more like the suit just fell down … like when you lose the belt on those too-wide pants, and they tumble to your ankles.

Scott’s suit was now at ankle depth. Unfortunately, Scott was still standing on the top rung of the ladder, skinny as a rail, tanned brown except for the white stretch in the middle. All there, for Webster Groves to see.

If you or I had been so unlucky, we’d immediately grab the suit and yank it up. I’d like to think so, anyway.

Remarkably, Scott didn’t.  Instead, perhaps in shock (his eyes indeed were wide), he looked to the left, to see if anyone had noticed.  Then he looked to the right. Then he looked toward the front.

Finally, he turned around to find Steve.

Steve, who had fallen back into the water, by now must have sensed the problem. He surfaced like an orca whale, sputtering and blowing, quickly looking for Scott.

He saw him … all of him. Then he saw the suit.  Then their eyes met. 

And, on cue, both slapped hands over their mouths ... as if they’d committed the mother of all no-no’s.

It took another few moments for Scott to collect his thoughts.  Finally, after what must have been a combined quarter minute of public exhibition, he reached down, grabbed his suit and hiked it back up.

Scott jumped back in to the shallow; Steve, quietly, went back to the deep.

I remember that Scott and I didn’t discuss the incident.  Maybe he was too embarrassed, although I don’t recall it causing permanent damage.

To this day, though, I count my good fortune for being at that place, at that time. 

Sure, it was a laugh – today, an occasional giggle – at his expense. But that’s the nature of humor … something to be shared. 

Like a Qua-than-wich.

Sing, lady, sing!

So we’re on the road, Zach and I.  In Detroit right now, up to the lake tomorrow.  Today we caught the Henry Ford museum; a Pistons game is planned for tonight.

Tomorrow, we travel north to see the cottage in the dead of winter.  It may seem silly, but that’s the main reason for the trip.  We’ve heard the stories – of snow drifts to the rafters, the lake as hard and flat as concrete, of narrow, “seasonal” summer roads slammed shut by the “other” season. We’ll see if it’s true.

This morning started, well, differently.  An early-morning opera singer did vocal gymnastics in the room next door.  More on that in a minute.

We were staying at a hotel in Auburn Hills, a northern suburb of Detroit.  If you don’t know the Motor City, you should know that its core is hollow, and the money has fled outward, including north.  Up along Interstate 75. 

Chrysler erected a new headquarters in Auburn Hills 14 years ago, when its prospects were better.  And that’s where The Palace is located – the arena home for the Pistons.

You can see the Chrysler high-rise from our hotel window.

But all’s not well even in Auburn Hills.  Chrysler, as you probably know, declared bankruptcy last year.  The government rushed in to prop it up, and Fiat agreed to roll the dice as the official rescuer. If all things go well, Fiat will emerge at the majority owner.  But a lot must happen before now and then.

You don’t appreciate the enormity of what’s happened in Detroit until you visit and tour the Henry Ford Museum.  There you see in comprehensive, historical detail the rise of the American auto business.  You see great names along the way … not just Ford, of course, but Olds, Cadillac, Packard, Buick, Nash and Willys.  And more.

What you don’t see in the presentation is any sizeable dedication to the force that started the decline of America’s Big Three (G.M., Ford and Chrysler).  That is, the Japanese. 

While the museum is a sea of Yankee ingenuity … hundreds of planes, trains and automobiles … the Japanese domination of the auto industry is represented by the single  display of the first U.S.-produced Honda Accord, a gray model that rolled off the line on Nov. 10, 1982, at Honda’s Marysville plant.  Oh, there’s a short video snippet that goes along with it.

Perhaps it’s too much to ask the museum to call more attention to Japan’s far-reaching impact on U.S. automakers. 

Then again, maybe it’s a moot point.  After all, the next wave of competition already has slapped ashore, from South Korea.  And the Chinese are now stirring.  Even Tokyo seems concerned.  No one is sure how it’s going to shake out.

Which gets us back to our morning.  At about 8 a.m., the woman in the hotel room next door began singing.  But this wasn’t just singing.  Apparently an opera singer, she was stretching her voice.

It’s hard to know what gig she had … who performs opera so early on a Saturday morning?  But clearly she was warming up. It was a series of high shrieks and low growls, of unending scales and octaves leaped.  I’m sure it was great music, but given that we didn’t get to bed until 2 a.m., it was about as welcome as long fingernails on chalkboard.

But appropriate, given the locale.  After all, we’re now waiting to see what happens to the Big Three.  Ford, of all of them, seems on the best footing.  But the federal government – actually, the taxpayer – is the majority owner now of G.M.  And Chrysler hangs in the balance. 

I’m not sure what the girth of our singer was.  But the saying about how it ain’t over until the fat lady sings applies across the street at Chrysler and throughout Detroit.

The Big Three are now in the final act of a drama worthy of opera.  And we wait.

Sadly, the story already seems a tragedy … one that would make even Puccini weep. 

The Battle of Bridges Hill

Sledding stories can be like fish stories; some are worthy of exaggeration.

“Dude ... it was like going off a ski slope without skis, man.  Like, I swear I hung 30 seconds in the air!!”

Some are not so worthy but interesting nonetheless.  I think I’ve got one.

We discussed sledding at the office last week, when the snows were falling everywhere. How, when we were young, we hardly thought it brave when we did crazy things on sleds or other conveyances. And we wondered if we could muster the same courage today.

We can, of course. But it’s the “doing it” that’s the challenge.

In my case, when I was 10 or so years old, the place to prove your sled cred was Bridges Hill. 

The hill was actually two steep hills that fronted a big, colonial residence a good two large blocks from our house in Webster Groves, an old St. Louis suburb.  There were thick trees on the west side, more open on the east. A creek ran along the bottom, separating the hills from a slow-moving street called Glen Road.

The house always was mysterious … at Halloween, we’d walk the long, steep driveway up to the front door, and sometimes there’d be candy in a bowl outside, sometimes not.

That seemed odd.  Given the size of the house and majesty of the front yard, we figured they maybe even had a butler.

That apparent reticence hung around when snows arrived. Kids from surrounding blocks would bring their sleds to the top hill, right in front of the house’s front door.  But the door rarely opened, the Bridges rarely came out, or – thankfully – bothered to shoo us away.  In fact, at night, they’d even leave the porch light on for us.

Quiet benevolence.  Incredible generosity, really. 

The magic of Bridges Hill was the double whammy of the two hills: the top one, more abbreviated, was both the staging area and launching pad.  I’d estimate it to be 10 feet tall, with a fairly steep drop.

It was mainly a swift introduction to the next hill, a tortuous, sheer fall of probably 30 feet.  Its middle was shaped like a “V,” so that sledders were naturally channeled into the fast-moving center.

At the very bottom of the second hill, just short of the creek, stood a massive tree, the rough width of a Sherman tank. 

Typically when I’d test the hill I’d bring along either my classic Flexible Flyer sled or a saucer, depending on how brave I felt. 

With the Flyer you had control … you could steer around that tree. But with the saucer, you were flying blind, at gravity’s whim.  You’d plop into the saucer, turn yourself backwards facing the house so you could give a good push, and off you went.

The first descent was gut-wrenching, less because of the hill than because of the fear of what came next.

You’d sink fast, seeing only the kids you left behind. And almost immediately you’d get  sucked into the vortex of the second hill’s “V.”  Along this “V” were the hill’s vast shoulders, swiftly muscling you back into the middle.  Still facing backwards, you’d bounce and slam from one side to the other, hurtling ever faster down the channel.

The snow would fly by, now a blur. If you were lucky, the bouncing would turn you around so you could see what was ahead.

Ahead was … the tree.

Steadfast, merciless, nature’s brick wall. 

The smart ones would bail out just before the saucer smashed against its broad trunk.  But that required good timing, and a willingness to tumble at 20 miles an hour through the snow.  And if you bailed too late and in the wrong direction, the tree would get you anyway.

Of course, those new to the hill usually never saw the tree coming … always good for a laugh from the veterans.

I remember my first crash: I was in the silver saucer, had turned around just in time to see the tree coming, and smartly leaned back with my rubber boots high in the air just in time.  The saucer’s bottom rammed the trunk, sending me tumbling back.  But alive.

Two other points to mention: 

First, keep in mind that while you’d be sliding down at unimaginable speeds, dozens of other kids would be doing the same or trying to slog their way back up.  If you’ve seen those Little Rascal shows where Spanky and Alfalfa drive makeshift carts down a steep sidewalk and knock pedestrians 10 feet into the air … well, yeah, it was like that.

Second, there was Glen Road at the bottom.  But we didn’t worry about sliding into traffic.  Because if you safely made it by the tree, the creek was there to catch you. 

Now, it was a shallow creek, and on the coldest days, it’d be frozen.  But St. Louis was rarely cold enough to freeze a swift-moving creek. Plus it was laden with rocks, roots and other rough stuff.

So the options were obvious in the last seconds: bail out, or dig in your toes, or fly over the edge into the creek's shallow ... wet! ... roughness.

***

The long walk early in the day to Bridges Hill was always telling.  We were warm, dry, ready for adventure.  But we’d see other neighbor kids already walking home, like soldiers back from the front, bearing the signs of battle.

Their cheeks would be bright red, they’d be limping, their toes obviously numb. Not unusual.

But a very few carried bigger scars – a bloody lip, or pants and coats completely soaked through (the creek got 'em).  Some would be like dead men walking,  the tears spent, eyes unfocused.

We weren’t deterred, of course.  Sure, the hill legally belonged to the Bridges family.  But we owned it, we knew its tricks.  It was ours to conquer. 

On good days, we did.