Four Brothers and Free-Range Boyhood

FOUR BROTHERS

AND

FREE-RANGE BOYHOOD

By Steven Overholt

Copyright 2014

Steven D. Overholt

All rights reserved

Cover Design by Sarah Christian

PLAYING CHICKEN

If a free-range lifestyle is so good for chickens, shouldn't it be even better for boys?

Well, of course!

But I guess I'm not the only one who's noticed that today's parenting often teeters at the brink of overprotective. In fact, some smarty-pants somewhere has even come up with the nifty name "helicopter parents" to describe the moms and dads who hover over their tots at play, monitoring their every move for any twinkle of risk or independence.

It seems like helicopter parenting is the trendy topic of concern, and I really believe it should be. Why? Because I come from a bygone era. Mine were the delightful, daredevil days of childhood adventure. It was a time when bravery meant everything, when on the backs of our dismal report cards we proudly scrawled our own tally sheets, which we defiantly titled: "Emergancy Room Vizits"

That may sound scary, but somehow our wounds were always minor-league--a few stitches here and there, maybe a small fracture, or perhaps an animal bite after watching an especially touching episode of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. You see, kids of my generation were masters of managing daunting odds and thrilling risks... taking it way over the edge yet surviving unscathed, sort of like we were tied to bungee cords. Once we grew up and started playing around on Wall Street, though... not so much.

A FAMILY PORTRAIT

My family was typical back in the day when suntans were healthful, trains had cabooses, and hands had callouses. We were four brothers who sometimes picked on our little sister (until she learned to land a well-placed kick), often bickered, yet always hung out together. Four boys within five years--there was always one of us old enough to dream up crazy stunts, and at the lower echelons, one of us naive enough to try 'em. Throw some buddies into the mix, add balmy summertime, and we built fun to levels that would give Super Mario serious nosebleed.

Willy, Sammy, Quincy, and I--Stevie--bonded by adventure, affection, triumph, and hand-me-downs. Among us were the nerdy, athletic, artistic, and brash. We were as different as oil and ethics. But through time our brotherly friendship only deepened despite the mismatch.

Outweighing our distinctions were our common fantasies: to lasso stampeding cattle on a desolate plain; swing through the jungle rescuing Jane; or to lead a fierce charge, sword raised high, sporting the helmet, breastplate, and goatee of a conquistador.

We each had our pipedream preferences, though, and my deepest yearning was for cunning and valor--the cunning and valor of a conquistador!

Our mom allowed just the right range of freedom, and our dad delivered just the right dose of discipline. We each experienced our own little "Age of Exploration," pushing the boundaries of our pedal-powered universe, while learning that the laws of both gravity and society deserved respect.

The word "idyllic" was surely conceived in my time, and the neighborhoods we roamed were Norman Rockwell's inspiration. Children feared God, teachers, and getting caught, because we lived in a time of consequences. In our free-range boyhood we were only boisterous at the level of "rowdy" (no real consequences) or perhaps at the worst: "unruly" (real consequences).

Now, as I sit quietly gold-mining memories, splendid stories well up like an inner Fountain of Youth. Here, on these pages, I'll thrill you with these epic sagas. And I absolutely guarantee they might actually be true. This is despite the decades gone by and the many "fish stories" that somehow slipped out before my largely successful therapy. Since I now understand the error of embellishment, I solemnly swear that in what you are about to read, any exaggerations are 110% unintentional.

PARENTAL PERSPECTIVES

Before we go burrowing through the bygone, though, let's poke our heads up and take a peek at some of today's child-rearing. Stone by stone, well-meaning folks may end up building a fortress of protection around their kids. Fortune, though, favors the bold! I think kids are born knowing this. Feeling trapped, they sometimes go bouncing off the walls simply because the walls are there.

And though I hate to admit it, I at one time began laying the foundation for my own little "parent trap." Yes, when I first learned I was to be a father, I resolved that my child would never perform the free-ranging, hair-raising exploits of my rousing youth. I guess that, starting a family late in life, I had succumbed to a middle-aged mindset. But now I'm torn between the cocoon-free parenting of the courageous past and the seeming safety of the structured, play-dated present.

My wife, however... she's firmly rooted in today. Parenting magazines litter our mailbox, while new-age newsletters choke our inbox. And she'll have none of my adventure-packed childhood nostalgia, coolly dismissing it with that little snort of hers that she knows very well annoys me so much. I'm not saying she's the overprotective hovering type, but most women, when they have their first child, go shopping for a minivan. My wife bought a helicopter. "It's my responsibility as a mom," she declared.

I'm also not suggesting my wife is a trend-setter, but the FAA recently built a control tower next to our neighborhood playground.

Well actually, my wife bought not just one, but "his and her" helicopters... and with a third as backup just in case. I of course objected--figuring that was just a teeny tiny little bit overprotective in the shocking extreme! But I knew my wife was on to something, even if somewhat misguided, so I told her I was going to take back my helicopter, and, in a far more rational and adventurous decision, go get a tank for me and my new little dude to tool around in across the "back forty."

To that idea she of course replied: "Yeah, when pigs learn to pole vault!" (She loves saying that.)

Proud of my quick thinking, I blitzed her with: "Hey, we'll be in a tank. How can you get any safer than that?" You see, I've learned that with my wife, safety always trumps pole-vaulting pigs--it's something deep within the mother instinct, I think--so I took full advantage to try to get my tank.

Unfortunately, I should have never asked: "How can you get any safer?" My wife can always think of something safer!

Do you realize how much it costs to have a child seat installed in a tank? Turns out that the old WW II surplus model I was going to buy doesn't have the brackets to fit today's car seats. Too soon it looked like my dream of starting my boy out in life with a healthy dose of manly manliness in the "back forty" was wafting out the window like a bad breaking of wind. That is, until the dealer down the street told me that the new M1 Abrams tanks built for basic training come with child seats standard. This new modern army is incredible in more ways than one!

THE FUN BEGINS

But rather than further lament the times of today, I'd rather pine about "back in the day." Back in the day when "safety" was the name of a school drill that had us crouching under our desks to practice hiding from real danger: the menace of nuclear war. This gave us a deep sense of perspective. And so we stared down with supreme confidence far lesser perils posed by the many wonders of nature--marvels like high speed, rock-hardness, great height, and recklessness.

When I look around today I see that we were different back then both in bravery and in body. There was much less obesity in my day. Well of course! We were bleeding far too often to gain serious weight. It's also true that in flipping, flying bike wrecks we skimmed flesh from our bare arms and legs, sometimes leaving long streaks along the pavement, the more impressive of which we paced off for bragging rights.

And of course any potential bragging right instantly became the most coveted prize in our simmering sibling rivalry. You can imagine the brouhaha that erupted the time I was giving Willy a ride on my handlebars at blazing speed, wiped out while trying to "pop a wheelie," then claimed that I could combine the red stripes from both myself and my poor passenger to claim the new family record. That, however, went over like a screen door on a submarine.

"Eight feet plus six feet... lessee, that's eleven feet," proclaimed Quincy after striding along the red stripes. "I did nine feet last week, so I still got ya beat."

"Ya don't add 'em, you idiot, ya hafta multiply 'em," scolded Sammy, who was ahead of the rest of us in school. "But it doesn't matter, because Stevie cheated when he pushed Willy along the road three extra feet."

Willy, still lying on the pavement, spun his head toward me, wide-eyed, lip starting to quiver. "He did? WAAAAH! I'm tellin'!"

"Shut up, ya sissy, don'tcha wanna set the record?"

"I think we should have a vote on whether it's a record," Sammy declared, acting all grown-up-like. "Maybe even a trial."

Now I had my opening. They didn't know who they were messin' with when it came to legal proceedings. My second-most favorite TV show, right after Zorro, was the courtroom drama Perry Mason. Unflinching in the face of my brothers' protests, I launched a blistering harangue on the merits of my case that would have sent Perry Mason reeling, should he somehow have the gumption to battle me in open court. With the odds stacked three-to-one against me, (That weasely little Willy would rather tattle than set records), I steeled myself for a grueling trial, and if needed, endless appeals.

A smack upside my head from Sammy, though, and the case was quickly decided.

You know, when I think about my eloquence at such a young age, I have to say I believe that kids' brains were livelier back then too. Those bursts of exercise really got the ol' heart thumping, and that--along with our constantly regenerating supply of peppy red blood cells--turned our minds into oxygen-fueled masters of the magnificent. We turned that cleverness into good times and glory vivid to this day.

Many of my best memories involve fireworks... and darn near all of my worst.

The rest of these recollections entail bikes, a rather hazardous vehicle for our hot-rod imaginations. Recognizing the sensitivities of today, I'll forget the firecracker fiascos and tell you grand-but-true tales of audacious packs of kids on bikes. We banged hard against the boundary between exciting and emergency room, always bouncing back on our feet, ready again to ride hard. And I'm not talking about the fancy trick-bikes of today's stunt performers, but clumsy Schwinn Roadmasters with crumpled fenders, playing-cards rattling in spokes.

I guess the first thing you should know is that I grew up in an age of grand imaginations and limitless horizons. We were Tyrannosaurs riding across that colossally free, unfettered era before the asteroid of bike helmets.

Propelled by a primal urge for speed, we pumped harder and faster, leaning back and shaking our heads through the heavenly thrill of wind in our hair. This was the elixir of an exciting childhood. Science had yet to figure it out, but we now know that those two-wheeled sprees released great dollops of dopamine deep in the pleasure centers of our unsuspecting brains. This splendid revelation means I can take comfort in knowing that nothing back then was actually my fault... none of the injuries, none of the lateness for dinner, none of the bicycle "streaking."

...Hey, have you ever built a bike ramp? A truly massive bike ramp? I mean a big, beautiful, Taj Mahal bike ramp? Well, we did. I have proof of our greatness in the frightening home movies where we can still be seen riding in all of our glory--blurred legs flailing furiously for that grandiose plywood gradient. Shrieks of joy as we rocketed straight for several seconds of pure adrenaline-amped, mighty-ramped weightless Wheeee! And the wind in our hair... always the wind in our hair. Oh, how we long for the days we had hair.

But alas, I've watched dozens of these flickering family features and have no idea how they ended, due to my mom's skillful editing. I'm not sure why I can't remember the outcome, but when we watch those old movies my wife keeps muttering something about concussions. (OK, I'll concede your point on bike helmets.)

I have my suspicions about how those lofty leg-powered launchings ended though, because we were smart, but we were merely street smart. Understanding the complex laws of physics, like: "What goes up..." (and whatever comes after that part) required book learning, and of that we were in abundant short-supply.

Street smarts made us creative, though, and especially fluent in wise-cracks. This gave us surprising skill in making up the most astonishing names for our bike-ramp masterpieces. I have proof because I saved many of the scrap-board signs we nailed to their soaring bell towers.

So that the designations would capture their most devastating impacts, we never ever named ramps until they were tested by our fearless, witless pal, "Braveman Billy." After that first eye-popping calamity we would all solemnly huddle around poor, prone Billy and assess the damage. Names ranged from the rather mundane "Hair Raiser," to the more menacing "Bone Crusher," to the most utterly terrifying of all, the very sound of which knotted the stomach of any boy... well I won't repeat the name here, but I'll tell you this: I could re-use that sign at Christmastime for a Tchaikovsky ballet.

Like I said, when we gingerly gathered around a splayed-out Billy it was an almost reverent occasion--even for him, the sacrificial lamb--and one time we found poor ol' Billy praying furiously for divine guidance... not for assistance in naming the ramp, mind you, but in crafting a parent-appeasing explanation for his missing little finger.

GOING DOWNHILL FAST

Our bike ramps provided one wonder of nature: great height. But there were those others to enjoy. And the pivot point in bike-riding lore; the moment when everything changed; the absolute instant against which everything else from there on out was measured (literally) was when some glorious genius invented the bike speedometer.

No longer were the results of our struggles subject to mere conjecture based on the length of skid marks. From the TV show Columbo we knew that police measured skid marks to estimate speed at crash scenes. But we were always a bit suspicious of cops and their methods since the time when nerdy Willy was nearly arrested for building an atomic bomb as a 5^th-grade science project. (Things were way more laid back, back then). With the speedometer we finally had a way to track our steady progress toward the extreme. And the Guinness Book of World Records set for us lofty goals.

Knowing our exact speed was vital in forecasting the flight path off our ramps--that much we knew from imitating the exploits of our oft-mangled hero, Evel Knievel. Speedometers also gave us actual data in bragging to buddies about our top speed down "Henrietta's Hill." That was the code name we used in front of parents when discussing Skeleton Mountain and our teeth-gritting feats of daring down its precipitous Deadman's Curves--a writhing black slash of asphalt snaking violently from the craggy heights. And the serpent beckoned. Oh, how it beckoned!

As I recall, at the fastest I ever roared down Deadman's Curves, even my finely tuned bike was a bit jittery. But contrary to what you would think, it was actually harder to maintain control at sub-sonic velocities. And I swear I once pulled so many Gs slinging 'round those bends that I briefly blacked out. What we really needed for safety gear was a G suit. But our daring, unrestrained, was vast and free.

Now, in my mind's treasure chest, memories of Deadman's Curves lie as if carefully pressed between pages of the old family Bible, and I unpack them with veneration. This was the site of both teeth-gritting bravery and teeth-chattering terror. But we, the few, knew no fear.

If speed is a demon then on Deadman's Curves the Devil himself spat our dust.

The chroniclers of history will say we cheated death, but on those plunging slopes there was no need to cheat it--those fearsome claws could never pierce our chainmail of courage. To the waiting Grim Reaper we screamed furious defiance atop the roar past our ears of howling gales--tires shrieking, squealing, smoking under the full strain of leg muscles bulging and gravity boosting. Against our staunch bravery Death was struck impotent--teeth in a chatter, fear through its heart like a dagger, skittering from the arc of our trajectory as a wild-eyed rabbit one breath beyond the gleaming, dripping fangs of a wolf.

FIRM FOUNDATIONS

Okay... maybe you caught me in a bit of exaggeration there. I guess that thinking of the old days brings back the old ways. But the truth is that fearlessness forms a firm foundation. And now, when I need to sort through life's many nerve-wracking options, I sometimes go sit quietly on a smooth, solid rock overlooking those curves.

As I ponder life's mysteries upon that ageless boulder, palms-up and cross-legged on granite that is firm and unyielding as I pray to be, clarity comes rushing in like a zephyr from the Age of Enlightenment. In eager anticipation I await answers in the echoes from eternity, seeking resolution from the wisdom of the ancients. Unfortunately, though, I have to get up because my butt hurts.

THE BOSS OF BIKE STUNTS

But seriously, folks; on that boulder I plan ahead and I also think back... way back... back to my youngest years and to a time when, soon after we were freed from training wheels, we got to squabbling over who was "The Boss of Bike Stunts." Willy said he could ride for a whole block "no-hands." Sammy upped the ante, bragging he could put his feet up on his handlebars. Not to be outdone, I blurted that I could cross the icy torrents thundering down Butcher Creek Canyon while riding a line of 2 x 4s spanning pilings from the bridge swept away in the last raging flood.

Before I could mutter "not really," my brothers double-dog-dared me.

Worse still, they trumpeted my death-defying claim throughout the neighborhood, and soon I had my budding honor to defend against the taunts of all.

For weeks those turncoats studied the design and construction of the Golden Gate, Mackinaw, and Brooklyn Bridges. These were excellent scale-models of what they aimed to build for me to cross--though my ride would be only one 2 x 4 wide. My aim was much simpler: continued existence on this earth.

However, that conniving crew had to somehow come up with a big bunch of 2 x 4s in order to actually construct the harrowing challenge of their wicked dreams. In front of their dads, my BFBs (brothers and former buddies) casually mentioned how educational it would be to build a little bridge across Rita's Rivulet, and they were set.

After much planning and nailing by my BFBs, the moment of my gut-wrenching ride arrived like an overeager undertaker. For weeks the news had been trumpeted far and wide, and I was the hottest ticket in town. The Las Vegas odds-makers had it two-to-one against me, and I don't doubt that my BFBs laid a nickel or two against me.

Happily though, those pathetic little "engineers" couldn't actually build anything across a treacherous chasm, so they settled for laying ten 2 x 4s end-to-end on a crushed-gravel road. Unhappily, edgewise.

Before a vast sweep of spectators I walked my bike toward my ordeal, stumbling and staggering, wearing only gym shorts as so cruelly demanded. Stopping, I drooped my head, leaned hard on my handlebars, and wavered, drawing a deep breath and making like I was about to pass out. But then I jerked up straight and tall, sweeping my hand in a dramatic arc from waist to high overhead. Flicking my wrist at the top, I roared in remarkable baritone: "I, Conquistador!"

Across the crowd, faces spun toward one another, while murmurs rose, reporters scribbled, and in the dim distance, bobbing heads of onlookers rose and fell like Whac-a-Moles.

I gulped hard and mounted that first spindly beam, then peddled for dear life, figuring the faster I flew the less time I'd have to take a great fall. But I resolved to do more than just not fall... so much more! Exhibiting style and control beyond belief, I would make my brothers eat their double-dog-dare like a bowlful of Kibbles 'n Bits.

I have to admit that in the years since my spectacular feat, I've learned of a few other times in history when power, poise, and valor had blossomed into such an art-form. But at the time, I felt certain I was first.

Rocketing down that rail I was righteous, able by the third board to go "no-hands" for a split-second. On the fifth I slung my feet to my handlebars--just for a moment. Soon my passion for performance melded time and motion until I was floating on fluid, velvety bliss. I snapped a salute to the dignitaries, then stood on my seat, pumping my fists to the billowing sky, thumping my chest and bellowing in Tarzan tremolo.

My BFBs rued their choice of a gritty gravel road as their slack jaws crashed right to it. Into those gaping maws I was shoveling bucket-loads of Fido's favorite!

But on the final plank I was smacked by rude reality. A brace broke and the 2 x 4 began to teeter. Fear twisting across my face, I pitched and rolled like riding a bronco. While the womenfolk averted their eyes, gloating BFBs spewed laughter and delight, imagining the taunts and highly animated "re-enactments" that would be forever theirs. But just when it looked like all hope was lost; when the howls had reached a fever pitch; when it seemed certain I would "biff" in a most shameful manner... I biffed in a really shameful manner.

But I didn't hit hard, mind you, I hit violently! It wasn't all bad though, because, making the best of a bad situation, I had the incredible presence of mind to step on a scale before my parents hauled me off to the emergency room. Sure enough, my weight had swelled by four pounds from embedded gravel. And that, my friends, is a record unbroken by anyone to this day! If the Guinness Book had an entry for the feat, I'd be quite famous, not needing to hawk stories of my childhood for a few extra bucks.

...Stories that I absolutely guarantee might veer more toward veracity as you plunder on through my treasure chest of remembrance.

NEW FRONTIERS

For us four siblings, childhood, brotherhood, and neighborhood each piled on to produce constant adventure, and every new frontier of youth brought us high hopes of more. Each night as we lay snuggled-in, dramatic dreams foretold our future. And our eyes always opened to a rose-tinted day. Then when our feet felt the floor we raced for those bikes, dashing between our deftly blocking mom and her table stacked with steaming French toast, which was always better cold anyways.

But far from being one-dimensional, our lives were brightened by much more than brawn. Those bike ramps we built took vast planning. And we were bold planners despite our unprotected heads; that's how we got to the moon. Even our mom was a first-rate planner; that's how she got the beehive hairdo, which actually took extensive preparation.

...Hey, while we're on the topic of adults and planning, I'll tell you this: I'm convinced that bike speedometers were simply Phase 1 of a sinister 2-stage corporate money-making plot. I can imagine the meeting where some clever marketers first presented their devious idea to The Big Cheese: "We'll come out with bike speedometers and make a tidy little sum because kids will pester their folks mercilessly, to see how fast they can go. But the Really Big Bucks will come a few years from now when we aim straight for the parents and unleash upon the market... bike helmets!"

Not all was fun and games, though, even in our idyllic little world. Bikes brought us liberty, yet on those wheels we brothers discovered early that freedom, of course, isn't free. This wisdom came unexpectedly when our dream of crossing Butcher Creek Canyon was finally realized after a few years, although on a highway bridge across town. Venturing to the other side we ended up in a neighborhood not our own. Here we discovered that Quincy's skin was a shade darker than the others of us, a seemingly obvious fact that had gone un-noticed. We heard some bad words that day, and took a few falls, but when it was done, the other side of town had learned a hard lesson on what it means to stand shoulder-to-shoulder.

Quincy, it turns out, was adopted. After this fascinating discovery we peppered our folks with questions, but beyond his Hispanic heritage they knew little of his background, nothing of his parents. We simply shrugged and got on with childhood, though with Quincy now cloaked in an aura of mystery--perhaps of noble birth, or even a descendant of conquistadors.

With a tinge of jealousy, I for some time afterward rode my bike shouting: "I Conquistador" across the sweeping panoramas of my neighborhood. I was on a quest... a mission to prove myself worthy. "Conquering" was my ultimate fantasy, though mostly what it got me was more of those crimson bragging rights. One day, though, I knew my time would come. I would be called to serve. I would not fall again!

FIRE AND ICE

But alas, bikes weren't the only perilous presents Dad so dubiously delivered each Christmas.

Each of us had a Daisy Red Ryder and we shot them completely at random--and sometimes at Randy. But that's not nearly as bad as it sounds because Randy was fast. He could usually dodge a BB... not always a direct-fired BB, unfortunately, but a ricocheted BB was no match for his lightning reflexes. That scene in "A Christmas Story" where a 1950s Ralphie is struck in the eye by a bouncing BB is pure fantasy, made up by young Hollywood writers who simply were not around before everything changed.

A 1950's boy could definitely dodge a ricochet, and even we in the '70s found through frequent, often surprise experiments that we could sometimes accomplish the amazing feat. It wasn't until Pong begat Space Invaders begat Donkey Kong begat Mario Bros. begat Need for Speed that youths slowed way, way down. Now kids simply fantasize about what we used to actually do, and the world is a much better place for that.

Okay... I guess you caught me beefing-up my bio again with those BB-gun stories, but this time I claim entrapment by the English language. I was on a literary high, and the alliteration of: "Red Ryder ...at random ...at Randy" held such allure. I liked it a lot! Soon I got into all that quick-reflexes stuff and then, well, I just kept going.

We would never have shot BBs at random, or especially at Randy. That would have gone beyond rowdy or even unruly; it would have been outright unethical, and it wasn't until we grew up and got to Wall Street that we... Well, never mind about that!

Icicles, however, are another story entirely from BBs. Those sparkling spear-points attacked with no help from humans. It's like they had a mind of their own, assaulting from above, where no rambunctious lad scanning the ground for the best gravel-filled snowball materiel was prone to look. Icicles are akin to a hunter sitting in a tree-stand, knowing that deer in millions of years of evolution have learned to not expect danger from above. Like a hunter's arrow, icicles would rain down and pin our coat to our shoulder or impale a foot, but never actually killing anyone outright despite the claims of Ralphie's mom.

With global warming, the kids of tomorrow won't have to worry so much about icicles, now will they? And that's what it's all about today isn't it: removing all sources of worry and every tiny tidbit of emotional distress. Yes, things are quite different now mentally as well as physically. When I was a kid, people for instance weren't nearly so worried about teasing, because we were far more robust. Back then kids picked on others who seemed weird, clumsy, or dim-witted. Today's psychologists say it causes permanent damage, and my wife is of the same mind. But I don't see what the fuss over nasty name-calling is all about... after several decades in therapy it has ceased to affect me.

THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Hey, wanna hear some of those firecracker fiascos? (Don't tell my wife.)

Well, you're gonna have to anyways, otherwise you'd never satisfy your curiosity about my Grand Conquistadorial Triumph. It's the climax of my story--which, I have to admit, tails off a bit after that. It also becomes more factual, though I doubt the two are related. So here goes:

M-80s; Roman candles; cherry bombs; bottle rockets; Black Cats; aerial spinners; sparklers; poppers; snaps; smoke bombs. As I recall, this is the order in which these yearnings appeared on our 4^th of July wish list--a list never shared with our moms or our tattletale sisters, and written largely by our dads. Numerous erasures and re-positionings were the result of lively debates among us boys on the merits of each. Some, like M-80s, existed only in the urban legends of pre-adolescence. Since we could only imagine their awesomeness, those of us with the most vivid imaginations (Yours Truly) usually won out. Of course we were never allowed to actually touch the pyrotechnic baubles beckoning from the stratosphere of our desire. We were only allowed to handle the humdrum.

But I digress. This isn't a story about our personal collections. Rather, it's about my Grand Conquistadorial Triumph, a heroic tale of me saving the world! (Oh, really? Well, just wait and see.)

One memorable 4^th of July, after a day filled with family reunion and a stomach stuffed with hotdogs and root beer, we followed up with a trip to the evening festivities. There we enjoyed a rousing concert by the U.S. Navy Band, followed by a long, long, long wait for the fireworks.

After about 10 minutes of: "Ooooohs" and: "Aaaaaahs," the crowd erupted in horror as one of the launch tubes fell over and sent a flaming ball straight toward the crowd. In terror, a thousand minds simultaneously seized on the same questions: "What shall we do? Who will save the day? Is there a conquistador among us?"

The blazing menace traced a smoking arc right toward me. Well, actually it first seemed to be coming at me, but I quickly realized it was heading toward a young mother cradling her baby 10 feet to my left. With lightning reflexes, and at no time considering my personal safety, I launched through the air and caught that ball of fury in my baseball mitt, which I wore almost all the time. To this day I can still see that spectacular event as though it was yesterday, though in super slow-motion.

Upon my stunning performance of that daredevil deed of my dreams, the crowd hoisted me high, carrying me toward the town square. I held my flaming leather like I was the Statue of Liberty and crowed: "I, Conquistador! I, Conquistador! I Conquistador!" to the rousing response of my fans: "You, Conquistador! You, Conquistador! You, Conquistador!"

These days you can even look it up online and verify the veracity of my account. It's all right there in the bio of my Facebook page.

But "saving the world?" you ask, definitely doubtful of my claim. Yes, certainly! You see, it turns out that the infant I so gallantly saved was a young Jennifer Lopez, without whom we would have never had...

OK, so you got me again... I didn't save the world.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

All-in-all, looking back, our childhood antics didn't hurt our neighborhood crew a bit in our adult lives. Dougie became a doctor, Terry took up teaching, and Emilio calculated engineering to be his life's endeavor. Willy went into welding, Sammy and I slid into stock-brokering, and Kenny moved easily into kinesiology. Jack considered his options, then went to Oregon, bought a big axe, and became a storied lumberman. But the only deep disappointment is Billy, who stopped being a braveman.

It was "Disaster-boy Dean," though, whom I lost track of years ago. That is, until recently, when that Allstate "Mayhem" commercial came on TV. I jumped up and yelled to my wife: "Hey look! It's my ol' pal Dean Winters! How many years since we've seen him?!?" (Note to self: Don't ever again bring up "Disaster-boy" Dean Winters.)

Marty, I hate to admit, never did amount to much. But that's definitely not the fault of our boyhood follies. Marty, you see, was motivated to succeed, but not enough to actually do anything about it.

So how about the rest of the old crew? Well, Olivia had the foresight to become an optometrist, while Susie sailed through life as a seamstress (Yes, we eventually discovered girls). Hesitant Henrietta became a highway engineer, and Deadman's Curves were never the same. But she seemed so much happier in childbearing years as a helicopter pilot. Rita earned her wages with a water-management agency... I don't recall the job, but it started with "R."

One in our troop had a minor brush with the law in his late teens due to prejudice of the day, but it proved no hindrance to eventual success. Variously viewed as a victim or villain, a vindicated Vinnie vaulted to the vertex of virtuoso violinists.

Zach monkeyed around as a zookeeper, but then found a black mask, bought a sword, and rose to swashbuckling fame in a western TV show and more recently, a Hollywood movie.

Quincy, however, never did find a job. We helped him financially, because with his name it was certainly not his fault. His prospects brightened, though, from the recent popularity of the exotic South American grain quinoa. After a tremendous send-off party we wished him well as he ventured off to seek his destiny in the remotest mountains of Bolivia where the grain is grown--and where he promptly became an accountant. Yeah, I know, but you see... when Quincy arrived in Bolivia he discovered his real parents living there, who had named him Andre before giving him up for adoption.

Not of noble birth, it turns out, but Andre is, in fact, of the conquistadors. This finally brought me a tie to them too.

FACT AND FABLE

I've tried to keep that conquistador spirit as my old memories--now buried under the weight of new ones--have compressed and morphed, upwelling as black-gold ink onto these pages. Still, there were some gaps in my recollection, and I've tried to fill them in for you with what might have been true.

And so now here we are, you and I--we've fondly explored each nook of my treasure chest. Yet as you consider this candid account of brothers and bravado, you may search for meaning in the madness, for some sense of moral to the story. For a long time so did I. But recently I strode out upon that primeval granite above Deadman's Curves, cushion in hand. There, facing the eastern glow, my meditation was an homage to eternity. Hallowed voices from history sighed through the trees--murmurs barely discerned as I released myself to the ages. Like an apparition, wisdom wafted in with the zephyr and...

...Okay, okay! There were no mystic voices! There was no magic zephyr. And the only apparition was the bulk of this fable. Except for Andre. He really did strike out for Bolivia. He did find his real parents there. And conquistadors do shine magnificence from back in his lineage.

HELICOPTER DOWN!

So if you're looking for a moral, well I guess this is it: The account of Andre's enlightenment is the zephyr; his discoveries clear proof: Life takes unexpected upturns for those who gallantly ride down fear and stride out seeking adventure.

It's how Columbus got to America. It's how Americans got to the moon. And kids need that.

To boldly go, they must first learn to be bold.

Copyright 2014

Steven D. Overholt

All rights reserved