Backstory part 4: child, hood.

During the holidays this year he asked me if my sister had told me anything.

"Anything about what?"

You see, he sometimes gets into trouble and doesn't like to tell us.

When he finally does spill the beans, the story is typical (boy goes off on adventure, boy pulls death defying stunt, boy lives to tell tale).

If you didn't know him, you'd just figure he had a vivid imagination (he does, but the stories are generally true, though they get better with each telling).

Turns out he had recently messed up his bike something awful while cruising on a daytrip with a gang of fellow players of hooky. He was going pretty fast (he likes speed) down a country road, hit a patch of gravel, aimed (somehow) towards the high grass and jumped off a moment before the bike flipped 4-5 times into an Iowan field. The bike was a total loss.

He made it home in one piece though (tame story by his standards). He jumped on the back of one of his friend's rides without any further incident (aside from a bruised tailbone, thumb, and ego).

Why couldn't he just play with his radio control model planes, take apart his toy cars, and battle orcs on his pc?

I worry, but his stories always end with a bright side.

Another boy, hood example to illustrate a typical day in this boy's life?

He recently told me about the time that a bomb didn't quite leave the B-29 bomber he was flying and how it spent its time poking, prodding, nudging the small of his back while he sat tangled in the parachute that had just misfired, shoehorned into the tailgunner's bubble and listening to the pilot describe a malfunction so serious that the crew was contemplating ditching the plane (which is a good time to have a parachute that's not covering the inside of your compartment).

They decided to land the plane instead of swimming in the sea of japan.

Sounds like a very immersive video game... god help us when he grows up...

It won't happen anytime soon certainly not now that he's single (my mom passed away a few years ago) and rolls with a motorcycle gang through the streets of the windy city. He's young at only a bit over 70 so there is still plenty of time to become an adult.

His most recent adventure with a bike turned out to have a bright side, the goldwing (his bike, which is about the size of a small car) was totaled and his insurance replaced it with an even more tricked out ride (now with 6 CD changer and antilock brakes).

"The old one always seemed kinda squirrely anyway."

When I was young there were far more kids in our family than adults and I fear that the ratio has slowly changed for the worse. I lose sight of childhood as I struggle to handle the stress of acting grown up. I lose the sensation that the whole world is our playground, that we are as rich as kings and as free as pirates on the high seas and that every day, every moment can reveal dazzling horizons if we'd only stop to breath.

I just spent the weekend with my dad and one evening listening to his old and even very recent adventures (see motobike death match above) reminds me that childhood is a state of mind that I could easily return to.

Dad reminds me how to breath.

My pop still lives most days in the playground, he's just a bit more achy and a bit more aware of the possibility of childhood's end. He has only recently been able to go out for recess a little more often now. A scraped knee and a bruised ego seems a small price to pay for the smiles he steals and the stories he weaves.