Beware of Closing Your Eyes

I am sure that it seemed like a good idea to put the light switch on the outside of the bathroom. You know, splashing water and electricity could be dangerous. Well, being the youngest kid with a bunch of brothers and a sister know to tease, this was a dangerous set up that even the architect could not predict.

It must have been Saturday night, because at that age I was rarely found clean unless it was to get ready for next day Sunday church services. I was likely told to soak some of that grime off and wash my hair. Being the obedient boy I was, I dipped my head under to get my hair wet and then applied the shampoo du jour.

A scrub or two on each side of my head and a few bubbles later I was ready to rinse off and get out of there. Down under the water I went, careful not to get any soap in my eyes. We all know that soap in your eyes could cause blindness.

Upon emerging from the tub, I opened my eyes to behold - nothing blackness. I could perceive no light, that until recently, interacted just fine with my eyes. I sat in stony silence. I was blind. I must have got a little soap in my eyes. I felt terror run over me. Should I scream?

Then, I saw a little trace of light. My sight was returning. No, wait. It wasn't a return to sight. It was the crack under the door.

Somehow, in the brief second I was under the water, my sister had switched the light off on me. A common trick we all did on each other as we passed down the hall.

I had never felt so relieved in my life to have that trick played on me. I was not blind but could yet see.

BEWARE - next time you blink some crazy event could happen in that split second.

My Trusty Street Bike

I loved to find good deals. Like the time I got wind of a sweet Honda CB350 for sale; I think it was a vintage 1970s model.

Somehow I scrapped together the $300 to buy it. There it was - a street legal bike and I was old enough to legally drive it.

The interesting thing about this bike was it's hidden GPS self-destruction system. I could drive this bike fifty miles with no problems. Yet the moment I was just on the outskirts of Barnwell, it would die.

One day, I riding home and hit a pothole which sent a bolt on the top of one of the forks straight up. A gusher of oil temporarily showered me until the shock was dry. It didn't really change it's performance though. It kept it's same sweet ride.

Driving a little bike like this down the highway in the brisk Southern Alberta winds was even more exciting. I would be leaning into the wind and then a semi trailer would roar up to my back end and the airflow would get all funky. I could feel they drivers ire as I tried to coax just a few more miles per hour out that little death trap. All the while I would be thinking about if the driver would notice if I suddenly wipped out and bounced under his truck.

I really don't remember what happened to that bike. I got tired of pushing it down the shoulder of the road to the nearest house, I think. It could have been the fourth battery I bought it or the many pants I had to replace due to oil splattering all over the leg from ... I'm not sure what.

It entered my life in great fanfare and then whimper out in a way that escapes me now.

But it sure was a good deal.

Dirt Bikes Can Fly

Familiarity can, at times, breed carelessness.

I was fortunate enough to have access to a Honda XR 100 dirt bike. Riding that bike felt like I was putting on wings. Effortlessly, I would race to one end of the farm and get things done that would normally take twice the time and effort. Plus, once the work was done I could have fun.

Fun was code for: finding ways to propel me and my mighty machine higher, farther, faster than before. My favorite location was the ditch that ran along one side of a field not so far from the farm yard. This was a good ditch because it had no water in it, there was no fence beside it and there was little traffic on that road (well there was really little traffic on any of the roads).

I soon formed little dirt trails that ran down one side and up the other, or weaved up and down the sides. The exit out of the ditch was usually a steep edge that, with the proper velocity, provided a nice launch into the air. At first, I was just happy learning to climb and descend safely. The airborne part came next.

One fine fall evening, I was improving my jumping skills near dusk. The field had already been harvested and the stubble had been cultivated. I had been jumping out of the ditch for a while when I decided to return home. Seeing my location for the last jump, I really put some speed into it.

From my airborne vantage point, I noticed a certain farm implement parked right on my landing strip. The 5 bottom plow sat smug and firmly as my tires touched down a few inches from the hitch. Moments later, I became aware that the dirt bike front tire could fit very snugly under that hitch. My body did tend to stay in motion, thanks to one of Sir Isaac Newtons laws, and I flew straight over the handle bars and plow.

I lay crumpled on the ground, not sure if I was lucky or unlucky. Sure, I just crashed into a plow and I was thrown mercilessly to the ground. Yet, in my crumpled state, I smiled and snorted out the wheat stubble ready for another day of dirt bike flight.

The Roaring Motorcycles

The first time I heard a motorcycle, I was standing in the middle of my backyard. Without a moments hesitation I ran from straight across the yard into the house, through the kitchen and under my bed. It was instinct.

By brothers thought this was slightly strange and just wanted to give me a ride. Pulling me out from under my bed was a little like get a tick out from under your skin. I was not going to risk my life out there on that death contraption that howled like a demon from...some bad place.

This soon changed.

I think I was about ten or eleven. This cool Yamaha motorcycle, blue, sleek and fast, came into my life. I don't really remember how but it appeared and it was all mine to play with.

The fun part of this bike was that it was missing parts but still worked. Most notably the clutch lever was sort half there. With some skill you could pull a little stub that was partially attached back. It didn't really matter though; the gear shifter was also gone. The bike, of course, lacked the foot pegs; which was sort of a nuisance.

I quickly ruined what was left of the clutch lever and I was out that part too. This did not damper my spirits though. With a group of kids as propulsion, I would put it into third gear by pulling a rod, that came out of the transmission, to just the right spot. Then with a whoop we started pushing down the road toward the barn.

Usually about half way there it would start. But I wasn't allowed to go any farther so I would have to shut it off after that short run. If it started sooner I would try to shift gears by getting the engine speed just right and pull that rod out just a little farther to pop it into the next gear.

I wasn't much of a mechanic at that age but I couldn't stop trying to play with it to make it start sooner. I discovered that those little screws around the carburetor could change the idling speed and how it started. It also made the spark plug get fouled a lot sooner. I would take that spark plug out at regular intervals and brush all the black gunk off of it with our bench electric wire brush.

Sometimes, I would just put it in finger tight. Then, I noticed that it made a difference if I got it just a little more snug. I found the right socket for the spark plug and a ratchet that could allow me to increase the torque.

It turns out that at ten years old I was strong enough to strip the threads in the head of 1969 Yamaha motorcycle and I did. I was devastated. I could keep it going with all those broken parts - but this was insurmountable. No compression, meant no combustion. This meant no more fun.

I sold it to my friend for a couple of bucks and lamented my new found strength. But at least, I was no longer running to hide under my bed at the sound of a motorbike.

Machinery Playground

Machinery fills every farm yard. I grew up loving machinery.

We had a row of old machines that were in various stages of decay all lined up along a fence - an old combine, an ancient manure spreader, a broken grain truck. Tall grass weaved through the draw bars, chains spokes and mechanical parts, hiding the rusting steel. Some of the oldest machines had remnants of wooden planks that still clung to steel skeletons. The carriage bolts still grasping onto shards of dried crumbling wood. The fragrance of old grease mixed with fresh farm air.

This was my playground.

My favourite was the two row sugar beet harvester. It was narrow and tall and had a chain linked conveyor system that moved the sugar beets from the ground up into a bin and allowed the dirt and debris to fall back to the earth through the gaping links. These links were perfect ladders and walkways.

I would enter in between the discs that rested on the ground, hidden amongst the grass, thistle or kosha weed. Entering in through the bottom I would travel up, like an animated sugar beet, and eventually end up in the large bin. In the bin, I stood vigil over the war torn battle field. I spied on troop movements and kept eye on aerial maneuvers - flocks of sparrows flying sorties.
Our harvester had a boom that extend cantilevered from one side. This perch was my precarious observation deck or in times of peace a joyful balcony.

It was a sad day when my body no longer fit through the discs. Eventually I could no longer see the war zone and my vigilant surveillance was no longer required to keep farmyard peace.

But, oh how I love to see the farm yards with their rows of machines. I glimpse through those rows of machines and see ghosts of forgotten joys.

Flying on the Swing

Swings are a close approximation of flying. I love to swing and always have.

In the row of giant poplar trees was on that had a bough that stretched out nearly horizontal and then raced straight up. Before I was aware of life, someone climbed up that giant bough, it must have been more than two feet in diameter at the trunk, and tied a big rope near the top and placed an old tire at the bottom.

This old tire swing was such a perfect swing. I would step up on the tire and then perch on the top of the tire with the rope between my legs. My dad, coming out of the shop, would walk up and I would beg for an underduck.

A giant of a man, he would rush at me and away I would go. Lifting into the air I would leave his great hands and earth below with a rush of such joy. Coming back I would shout as the tire twisted and flew down to the ground to turn right back up again.

I felt like a bird diving for mice over and over again.

I see swings now and my heart pounds with the reminiscent joy of those days of joyful flight.

The Potato Harvest

We grew potatoes. Lots of potatoes.

Well, there were, and are, certainly larger farms but we still had about a 100 acres of potatoes, and in my book that is a lot of potatoes.

When I was too young to drive the trucks hauling the potatoes in or drive the harvester, I was given the job of pulling the boards out of the back of the truck. (Don't ask me to explain, it would take too long.) This was a job I was always willing to do.

This meant that I got to ride in the back of the truck to and from the field. I would sit up there and watch the truck slowly get filled with potatoes. Then once full, I would face the wind and ride back to the potato storage. I loved that.

Scattered amongst the potatoes were dirt lumps. Back at the storage facility, a crew would sort those out before long term storage but during that journey back they were just my personal arsenal. I sat up there as we rambled down the gravel roads and threw dirt lump after dirt lump at the fence posts. I loved to see them fly across the roads and into the dried up prairie grass. I would shout out in great happiness when I got a fence post as if there were a great crowd following each of my throws.

Now it is turning to the fall, I sometimes get a sniff of cool earth on a crisp autumn day. The damp earth smell and a slight fresh breeze and I close my eyes. Instantly, I am transported to another day, another era of my life. I feel the thrill of that country road with the fresh wind.

It renews my old bones.