The Story of My Life: Why Saturdays Were Legendary

I loved Saturdays. Rain, snow, or shine, they were the most epic day of the week. You may guess it was because that's the point every week where my education went on pause. That astute observation did indeed play a part, but was minimalistic in my reasoning for being enthralled by a day named after a Roman god. It was a combination of an exciting routine of events that made a kid feel so alive. Let's get into it.

A typical Saturday started with waking up before the sun did most of the year. Most young children do that naturally and it's not until the teenage years where sleeping in becomes habitual. Yet, there was a purpose for it. Saturday morning cartoons. Starting at 6:30am and running until noon, they captivated and entertained us for hours. They were what we waited all week for they were the best of the best. We didn't have cable TV growing up (where cartoons were run nearly 24/7) so once a week we got our fix. Every major channel had them. And it wasn't just watching them; it was also how we watched them. The process was simple. Roll out of bed, don't change out the PJs, make a bowl of cereal, then plop on the couch for the next 4-5 hours. Sarah was the cartoon junkie and would have the TV on and a bowl of cereal ready to go around 6am. Scooby-Doo came on at 6:30am and there was no way she was missing that. Most of the cartoons I enjoyed came on from 8am-11:30am so getting up that early was not in my wheelhouse. Seven to seven-thirty was where I usually drew the line. You may be wondering how five kids managed to peacefully watch cartoons without bickering over what show or channel to watch. We had a system of unwritten rules. Sarah was the first one up and most of her favorite shows aired between 6:30am-8am. Anyone else who woke up at that time simply watched whatever she was watching. After that whomever got their hands on the remote usually had control which was either Tim or I. Nathaniel and Stephen usually didn't get much say in the matter, but they were young enough that as long as the TV was on, they were content.

The morning cartoon hours were more than just the cartoons. Like super bowl commercials, Saturday morning cartoons and something extra with them. We only had an analog TV that got 7 or 8 channels and used the ancient technology known as rabbit ears (antenna). This was before airwaves converted to high definition. Depending on which channel you were on, each had it's own intro and transition clips between commercials. ABC had what was called One Saturday Morning (which was my favorite) that had a sweet intro song (youtube it) before the cartoons and then a little lightbulb in the corner that would be turned on to signal the start of each cartoon. The best set of cartoons they aired were Doug, Recess, and Pepper Ann. FOX eventually had the Fox Box which boasted cartoons like Action Man, Nascar Racers, Ozzy and Drix, Pokemon, and Yugioh. NBC would show cable cartoons that could be seen often on Nickelodeon such as Blues Clues, Little Bear, & Franklin, but were re-run on regular TV in the Saturday morning cartoon time slot. Another side note is that the commercials were even worth it because they were all aimed at kids. The toy commercials, the candy & drink commercials, the cereal commercials, and even the shoe commercials were exciting to watch.

One last thing I'll say about the cartoons is that sometimes it was mission impossible of sorts. My parents were on the strict side growing up and they didn't allow us to watch whatever we wanted even if it was a cartoon. They'd even go as far as to change the channel if a commercial they didn't like came on. For us, some of those cartoons we couldn't watch were some of the coolest. For a period of time, we would attempt to watch these "banned" cartoons when they came on, but only if our parents were out of the room. These would be the most tense ones to watch because any little outside sound caused us to immediately change the channel. The other problem was that the old analog TVs were sometimes slow at changing between stations and when they did, they displayed the channel number for an excruciatingly long period of time in the upper right hand corner as pixelated digits. It didn't take long for my mom to put two and two together as every time she came down the stairs, she saw a channel number in the corner of the screen. Thankfully, we only received a harsh scolding when caught.

After the cartoons had ended the afternoons would vary depending on whether my dad worked or not. If he did, then we utilized those chunks of the day to test new games we created (including the previously mentioned banned ones), played full blown soccer games in our back yard, hung out with Maggie, Katherine, Zach, and any other neighborhood kid that showed up, and if it had snowed, would spend the entire afternoon sledding. If my dad was off work, we would more often then not have an afternoon outing. Sometimes that would be spending a good portion of it at Chuck-E-Cheese, or going to a local park, or spending the afternoon exploring Hanover. 

For us kids however, Saturday evenings were our Friday nights. By that I mean the most epic evening of the weekend occurred on Saturday. We didn't have a lot of money growing up, but that reality faded when we all piled in a Ford Aspen station wagon and rolled into Hanover. Nearly every Saturday the first thing we did was go out to eat. We loved this because sometimes it was McDonald's and sometimes it was our favorite buffet called Ryan's. Buffet's were the best because we got to pick what we wanted and had a wide variety to choose from, although some of us were content with macaroni & cheese and french fries. You would think that bringing five kids to a restaurant on a weekly basis would be a nightmare. But my parents raised us right and the simple warning of misbehaving would put going out to eat on a hiatus, we listened. I cannot count how many times random strangers came up to our table to compliment my parents on how well behaved we were. It happened almost on a weekly basis and I had set a high standard for myself to attempt to receive such compliments every time we ate out.

Going out to eat was not the end of the night. Sometimes we'd swing over to our favorite fun center known as Falloon's. It started as a simple arcade center where you could play the games and get tickets to exchange for prizes. Eventually as their business picked up, they added an indoor jungle gym, a mini golf course and allowed a pizza place and a dairy queen to occupy space inside. If I had to designate a favorite place, this was it. The thrill of having a pocket full of once shiny tokens which unlocked countless hours of fun was the stuff dreams are made of.

A night here went like this for me. My dad would give me a $5 bill which was good for 20 tokens. As most games at that time only cost one token, I was able to stretch them pretty far. I always went for the video games first because they didn't give out tickets. I wanted to make sure that the last games I played were the ones that dispensed tickets so I had a better chance of acquiring enough for something I wanted by night's end. I was drawn to the racing games because as much fun as it was to win, it was even more fun to try and wreck the computer drivers. The name of my favorite was Days of Thunder. After that it was usually on to a fighter pilot game where for a few minutes, I got to feel like a real war pilot blasting enemy planes out of the sky. Then came the ticket games. While skee-ball was usually a safe bet and a ticket gold mine, I gravitated towards the more physical games. There was Big Bertha where you had to throw as many plastic colored balls into a large clown's mouth. Spider-Stomp had you stand on a platform and would light up spider pads that you had to stomp on before they turned off. But the one that always drew my attention was an older game that was called something like Whack-a-Croc (probably not, but close enough). The game had a padded mallet attached to it and a soon as you put your token in, mechanical crocs would slide out of their holes at random. Your job was to mash as many as you could in the time given. Some crocs would stay out forever, but some would come out only long enough for you to attempt a whack,  but if you missed, you were likely to miss another croc as well. We always made it a competition among ourselves to see who could get the best score, including my dad. We got so competitive that we realized we could hit more crocs without the mallet and just use our hands instead. Sure mashing hard plastic didn't always feel good, but you had to do what was necessary to be the best.

Games of chance weren't originally my cup of tea as it meant betting precious tokens for the chance to win big, but most of the time end up with little to no tickets. Then, on one fateful night, everything changed. There was a popular chance game that appeared in most arcades everywhere. We called it Jackpot, but I believe the branded name was Cyclone. It was a short, hexagonal machine with a dome on top and a light that zipped around a circle. You could pic any one of the sides to place a token in to send the light in the reverse direction. You had one chance to stop the light on the jackpot space by pressing a single button. I never cared for this game because the one time I tried it, I missed badly and got 2 tickets. But this one night, as I was passing by it, I heard the machine going nuts. It was making ringing sounds and flashing like mad. There was a lone man maybe in his late 40s or early 50s just standing there as tickets poured out of the machine. He had hit the rare jackpot. The tickets kept coming so much in fact that I went to play other games rather than watch them all spill out. That lucky guy was still standing there near the end of the night when we went to cash ours in. When the machine finally stopped, the man took this large bundle to the counter. The employee took them and began to feed them through the ticket counter machine. After what seemed like an eternity, the counter read nearly 2000 tickets! My jaw dropped. That many was enough for a prize from behind the large glass, basically the more expensive ones. From that night on, chance games took up to 40% of my tokens whenever I visited a place with ticket games. 

My goal became to beat Cyclone. I fed many tokens into that game. Studied the light pattern. Timed the exact moment to press the button. Then it happened. I hit the button and stopped the light right on the jackpot, only to watch in horror as it skipped off onto the 10 ticket space. That was the day I found out the game was rigged. But I didn't know how rigged. My ever relentless desire to beat Cyclone led my timing to be so spot on that I could stop the light on the jackpot nearly every time. But that stupid little light would "skip" off over and over...until one night it didn't. I had stopped it on the jackpot. But the game didn't make victory sounds. The lights didn't go berserk. They just disappeared and the game spit out 10 tickets. Not to be robbed, I spoke with one of the employees and told her what happened. She informed me that if I was successful, the secondary backlight would have lit up as well. This meant that you could stop it dead on, without it skipping, but if the game decided it wasn't profitable to spit out that many tickets then no jackpot for you! That moment surly put a damper on how often I played the game. But like any addiction, the slight urge to play was always there. This would be a game that tested my patience for years to come.

Cashing in our tickets was always fun as it meant we were able to obtain prizes. The reality was that not a single prize was worth the amount of tickets they required nor the amount of money used to purchase tokens to obtain tickets. But as a kid, that mattered not as it was not our money we were spending and the prizes were "earned". I always wanted the big ticket items but never saved up for them because that meant multiple visits where I kept the tickets and had nothing to show for them. Usually I ended up with a lot of candy, some army men or parachute men, some stretchy men, and some other weird dollar store toys. But once I managed to get a black and yellow smiley lanyard. That lanyard held my house key for years and well outlived its value. It may have been the one I used the longest out of all the lanyards that came after it. And I earned it.

Before returning home, my parents would usually want to stop at Walmart to pick up a few necessities. As kids, it was the perfect end to the night as one parent took us to the toy aisle where we would spend every moment we had ogling and and "testing" the toys we couldn't have. What I mean by testing is that a lot of the toys had "try me" buttons that you could press to make them do something to show you how cool they were. For example, one of the hottest toys around Christmas time one year was the Tickle-Me Elmo. At the store (if you found one), you could press his hand to make him talk and then "tickle" him to where he would shake and laugh all while still in the box. Most other toys would make sounds or flash lights, but for us kids, it was sheer enjoyment and for my parents it was free entertainment.

After all the day's fanfare had finished, going home was still a sight. You'd still see the city of Hanover hustling and bustling with people. The car guys would be in the Wendy's or Walmart parking lots revving their sweet rides and showing off their neon glow. The dirt track down the road would be loud and roaring as the Saturday night dirt cars were just getting under way. The bowling alley signs would still be flashing their animated cartoons, beckoning you for an evening bowl. But my favorite part was when my parents drove back up Hershey Heights hill and I could see the entire town's lights as if it was a swarm of July fireflies. 

To the average person, these accounts may not be considered worthy of legendary status. But when coming from humble beginnings and a big family, being able to go out to eat nearly every week, making an occasional visit to a fun center, and being able to partially play with toys we couldn't own was enough to make a kid like me think I was living large. Maybe as you finish reading this, take a pause and reflect upon great experiences of your childhood. Take a moment to realize how magical they truly were. You're welcome. 

The Story of My Life: A Boy and His Bike

Bicycles. One of mankind's greatest inventions. You never forget your first. And by that I mean the first one that was your own and you learned to ride with no training wheels. When I was really young, Grandpa Watkins got me started on this really small, white and pink, kid sized (ages 2-5) bike with training wheels. I zipped all over his driveway on that thing for hours on end. While it was one of the first bikes I did ride, it wasn't full sized and the training wheels never came off. The bike I truly claim as my first as it became my very own, was a sleek black with gray splotches Huffy bike. A one-speed with no hand brakes and colorful plastic spoke clips, it quickly became my most prized possession. I still had not mastered the art of a two-wheeler, but by the age of 6, that was all about to change.

Huffy bikes were all the rage in the 90s amongst kids. If you had one, you were doing something right. Having one was only half the equation. To be cool, you had to be able to ride them without the "baby wheels" as we called them. So one summer day, my 6 year-old self decided it was time to ditch them. I'm pretty sure I asked my mother to remove them. Then, with the luxury of a big yard, I pushed the bike a distance until I was comfortable enough to hop on. Once I finally did, I pedaled like mad to keep from falling. It didn't take long to become comfortable with riding without the fear of toppling of in some horrific crash.. Now stopping was another matter entirely. With hand brakes not being a thing for one-speeds, there were three ways to stop the bike. 1) Pedal backwards so the gears locked and kept the back tire from rotating anymore (easiest). 2) Drag your dominant foot on the ground to cause enough resistance to get the bike to stop (Took some skill). 3) Crash (most painful). I employed all three of these methods and for the longest time, the foot dragging method was my brake of choice. Some of the problems that occurred with such a method were that my shoes would wear out faster, my foot occasionally got caught on natural debris, and sometimes I was going way too fast that attempting this method would almost always get overruled by method three. This was all part of the learning process and the only thing that mattered was that I could now ride a two-wheeler like the cool kids.

With no phones, no internet, no video games (parents didn't let us have them at the time) and a big yard, bikes were our go-to entertainment option. If you know us by now and have been following this blog for awhile, you'll know that simply riding them was not enough. We had two major forms of excitement with bicycles which were racing and stunts. We utilized a large chunk of the land as an imaginary racecourse. Our starting point was always the white gravel road at the very end of the woods that led to the country club's maintenance garage. There was a large enough clearing through the trees that we raced through, which eventually led to a small in stature but long in length, hill. One had to clear this hill in order to continue the course. Upon doing so, we then raced by the male mulberry tree and down a bigger hill by the house. The final stage consisted of racing around the house, across the narrow strip of grass between the house bushes and the front bank, across the gravel driveway, stopping by the little brown shed. This course may have seemed long, but was usually over in a matter of minutes. It designed to be exciting, but also a bit dangerous. Why? First, the mini hill. It was really small yes, but if one had enough speed, it became a ramp and going airborne was quite common. While the hill was long, our clearance wasn't much. On the left was a large pile of dead wood that would get piled up there over the year. To the right was a large tree and then the shed directly behind it. We had plenty enough space to get between the sticks and the shed, but imagine racing four to five other people trying to hit that clearance. It did not always end well. The next dangerous spot was down the second hill and the first turn around the house. At this point, our speed picked up dramatically and if we weren't in control, we either wiped out on the turn or potentially collided with the house. There were two more risky spots. The patch of grass between the bushes and the bank was so narrow that only one bike could get through going one way. If you clipped the bushes or slid off the side of the bank, you were in for a tumble down it into the street. Immediately after that strip was the gravel driveway which had a bank on either side. Depending on your speed, it became another mini ramp with dangerous loose gravel that caused a handful of wipeouts. This was our racing course. And from mid spring to early fall, it was a staple in our everyday adventures as kids.

I also mentioned that we did "stunts". Our favorite spot to attempt them was that first mini hill which was big enough to get us airborne. Zach, Tim, and I would occasionally hold competitions to see who could get the most air and who could land the furthest. As Nathaniel became older, he eventually joined as well. Each of us would take turns starting all the way up at the white gravel road. We would then pedal as hard and fast as we could to get enough speed going into the hill. Then it was up to fate how high and far we went when we hit it. Being the little daredevils that we were, we'd sometimes change the course to go over the right side of the hill instead of the left. That part of the hill was a bit higher, but it also landed us on the concrete pavement between the picnic table and the shed. After that, there wasn't much distance to stop before we found ourselves in the gravel driveway and then running the narrow grass strip by the house. Going this was was tricky and any minor mistake could cost us. There were some pretty dynamic crashes.

Two of my most horrific spills came from when I was jumping the mini hill by myself. I was getting in practice runs for when I took on Zach and Tim in the future. I casually rode my Huffy up to the white gravel road. I faced the bike towards the hill, paused, took a long, cool breath, and then took off. I pedaled as if the devil himself was chasing me. Because I was going so fast, I was losing a bit of control and the walnuts and sticks crunching underneath my tires were throwing off my preferred course. By the time I reached the mini hill, I knew it was going to be close on clearance, but it was too late to stop now. I flew up the hill cleanly and was airborne. I knew my landing point was going to be extremely close to the shed, but there was nothing I could do but hope I missed it. The bike hit the ground hard and the jolt was enough to turn the front tire slightly to the right. BAM! The front tire clipped the edge of the shed, spun the bike sideways, and launched me to the left. I tumbled a short distance away from the bike. Then I collected my scrambled senses and checked myself out. Saw I had a few minor scrapes but nothing more. I checked my Huffy and saw that she was still in excellent shape. After walking away from a crash like that, I did what any young boy my age would do...go again. The second crash came much later and ended up creating a chain of events I was not expecting. I decided once again that I was going to try and catch massive air, but this time, I was going to attempt the risky route of splitting the shed and the picnic table. Once again I began my approach from the white gravel road. And once again, I sacrificed my control for speed. I had made this jump many times before, but this time for a reason unbeknown to me, I was approaching the hill too far to the right. I flew up it and achieved more air than I had even acquired before and I was flying. But my adrenaline rush turned to horror as I saw where I was going to land. Both wheels slammed upright on the concrete pavement followed by the front wheel colliding head on with the two cinder blocks that held up the right side of the bench for the picnic table. I was once again launched off my bike. Like the previous crash, I was able to walk away fine, but the picnic table wasn't so lucky. The top cinder block fell and cracked in two on the pavement. The bench was flung into the table, which toppled over the other bench and rolled down the slight incline, severely damaging it. To be fair, both the table and benches were old and rickety which is why they got pulverized by my collision. The destruction of the picnic table eventually led Mom to sending me (and Tim) with Al one day to build another one, but that's a tale for another time.

I wasn't the only one who had my fair share of crashes. I remember one in particular involving Tim, Zach, and I. It was a late Autumn evening and it was nearly dark. We decided to have a jumping competition. We each took turns racing our bikes down through the woods and up over the hill. Everyone was making clean jumps. So we decided to make it more interesting. We began making the hill "higher" How? By collecting a bunch of bark and slowly piled it on top of the hill. We took turns to see who could clear the highest pile. At one point, Zach and I were on the edge of the hill adding more bark onto the pile. I then stuck a tiny stick behind the pile for support, even though it wasn't really doing anything. Not known to us, Tim had began to make his run. Zach and I were still on the edge of the hill, making the clearance even smaller. I turned my head at the last second to see Tim come flying onto the hill. The next thing I knew, he was sideways in the air, tangled in his bike, and in a weird superman-like pose. He ended up landing on his stomach with the bike mostly on top of him. How it happened, I can only speculate. Maybe he thought he was going to hit us and bailed. Maybe he didn't think he was going to clear the pile and tried to miss it causing him to lose control. Or maybe he lost control in the air. Whatever the cause, he managed to get up with nothing more than the wind knocked out of him. 

While the stunt course was our secret pleasure, racing was where it was truly at. Anywhere from 2-8 bikes at anytime were at the starting line (that's how many could fit fairly). Any neighborhood kids that brought their bikes over would get involved. We'd race each other all summer long and sometimes deep into the fall. Even three year old Stephen would race at times even though he never had a shot at winning. Zach had the best bike and being a little older, he usually ended up winning unless something dramatic happened. One time after losing to him three times in a row, I was determined to beat him. Upon go, I pedaled with all my might. I actually had a tire length on Zach, but he was keeping real close. Suddenly, he shrinks lower to the ground and I hear a loud OOF. I blow by him and turn my head back to see him topple off the bike. I kept going and finished the course victorious. Upon my triumphant finish, I went back to see what happened. Zach was pushing his bike back to the shed. Apparently he pedaled so hard, he snapped a pin in the chain, causing it to fall off the gears and caused him to wreck. Seeing he was okay, I still soaked in the moment that I had finally beaten him. Another time Zach and I had a one versus one race. Zach smoked me pretty good. Determined to finish the course, I turned the corner on the house and to my surprise, saw Zach way off course and part-way down the hill. He was standing by his bike, but not going anywhere. He motioned me to come over. I started laughing. He had on a pair of those ever popular baggy jeans and one of his pants legs was caught in his gears. I had to go into the house and grab a wrench to help pry him loose. This became a common site if we wore baggy jeans while riding a bike. 

My love for bike racing and winning took me on a path to attempt to beat everyone who rode a bike. I had taken care of Zach, Tim, Nathaniel, Stephen, and even Maggie and Katherine. But there was one person I had not beaten because she didn't race with us much. That person was Sarah. So one night, she and I had finished eating dinner before everyone else. I asked her if she'd race me one on one. To my surprise she agreed. So we went outside, got our bikes, and took them up to our usual starting point. I called out 3-2-1 go! And  we were off. It wasn't long before I put some distance on her. So much so in fact that I made it down and around the house and she was nowhere to be seen. Upon being victorious, I rode my bike back around the house to see where she had gone. I arrived just in time to see her come barreling down the hill by the male mulberry tree. Then I stood there shocked as I saw her lose control and slam into the side of the house. I ran over to see if she was okay and thankfully she was. Her bike was still in mostly good shape, but there was a tire imprint on the house that remained there until the day we moved. That was my first and last race against Sarah as she unsurprisingly didn't want to race me ever again. 

Fall races were more challenging as there were a number of rough elements in play. The cold sting of the crisp Autumn air or our faces, the extra nature debris from leaves, sticks, and walnuts, and our own element where we found out that if you threw a walnut hard enough at a rotating bike tire, they would get caught in the spokes. During those races, one or two of us not racing would hoard a pile of walnuts, pick a spot along the course, and wait for the racers to come by so we could unload on their tires. Most of the time the walnuts either harmlessly fell off via the tire's rotation or landed perfectly to avoid any other bike components. However, every once in a while, a walnut would get lodged just right and jam the tire between the spokes and the fork, causing the front tire to seize up. There are no colorful crashes I can recall from these antics, but I'm sure some occurred.

Somewhere between the age of 10 and 11, I received a brand new, sleek blue, Pacific mountain bike for my birthday. I was ecstatic. I still loved my Huffy to death, but I was out-growing it. I retired the Huffy to our shed where it spent most of its time, only to be ridden on rare occasion. The Pacific, was flashy. It had 12 speeds, hand brakes for both front and rear wheels, and I could pedal backwards without causing the bike to stop. She was fast, she was smooth, and she was all mine.

Like the Huffy before her, the Pacific went through some harrowing moments caused by my own ineptitude. The first came when I was testing her out on the mini hill. On one run, I gained way more speed than I was used to. Right before I hit the hill, I panicked and squeezed hard on the hand brake for the front tire. Suddenly, the front screeched to a hard stop and the momentum from the back launched me over the front of the bike. As I hit the ground, the bike tumbled over top of me. I learned a valuable physics lesson that day. It taught me to clutch the rear hand brake first and then ease into the front brake if necessary. Another day I was testing the bike out on our normal racing course. I went clockwise around the house as was normal. But as I turned upon the narrow grass strip, there was Tim flying at me from the oncoming direction. I grabbed the brakes, but Tim and I still managed to collide head on. I kept control of my bike and used the bush for support, but poor Tim tumbled down the side of the bank. At the exact moment it happened, our parent's friend Ned had just pulled up in his car and witnessed the whole thing. We heard a loud "Wow!" and an "Are you okay?" Thankfully we both were fine. The worst crash with my Pacific came when my parents finally let me ride the bike in the street. I was allowed to go up to the fire station (about a block beyond the white gravel road) and ride from there to our driveway. Going in that direction, it was all downhill. The reason the driveway was the cut-off point was because beyond that was the country club entrance and exit. My parents didn't want me crossing them as cars coming in and out probably wouldn't have seen me. I made this run a handful of times no problem. But then I started to go faster and brake a little later. It was pure thrill. Then, during one fateful run, I was going faster than I should've and I over-shot the driveway. I didn't want hit the brakes fearing a wipeout in the street and a lot of scrapes and cuts, so I made a hard turn which took me up the bank in front of our house. The bank and my speed launched me incredibly high into the air and with nowhere else to go, my bike and I slammed into the corner of the house. My mom heard the collision from inside and came out to see what had happened. Not wanting to show her I was hurt, I got up and tried to hide my limp as I walked away. Once I regained composure, I saw I had taken a small chunk of skin out of my right knee. The rain gutter on the corner was dented. I also bent the fork on my bike. That was the first time I ever damaged a bicycle where it needed repairs. I faked my injuries enough to get into the bathroom and bandage up my knee by myself. As for the Pacific, Grandpa Watkins and Uncle Randy took it and replaced the fork. No longer did it match her blue hue, but was now a silver gleam on the front. It served as a constant reminder how lucky I was once again to walk away with nothing more than a cut or two. The limp wasn't serious and went away within a couple days. But what a ride that was. 

My Huffy and Pacific were two of the greatest gifts I'd ever received. I rode them fearlessly, endlessly, and crazily for as long as I had them. My childhood and the experiences I gained during those years wouldn't be the same without them. These were some of the tales of a Boy and his Bike.

The Story of My Life: The Banned Games

"I'm bored!" A phrase kids love to say and parents hate to hear. Unfortunately for my mother, she heard this phrase more than one should. Her first response to our incessant whines was "go outside and find something to do." Most of the time we replied with a curt "No!" Then she'd simply say, "We'll I've got plenty of chores you can do." That second response had us bee-lining out the door. You better believe we managed to cure our boredom, but the way we did it usually forced us to find new ways each time we uttered that dreadful phrase. Why? Because the games we came up with almost always caused an outcome that would force my parents to put and end to them. Hence the name: The Banned Games. In the rest of this chapter, I will be describing each game in detail and giving you the cause for why it was banned. For some, you may see a pattern. Let's go.

Shoe Kicking Competition: Remember that swing-set I mentioned we had? We utilized it in many different ways. We found out that if we swung hard enough and gained enough momentum, with a forceful kick, we could send a shoe (or flip-flop) great distances. The game was simple. Using the swing, we had two chances (both feet) to see who could send their shoe flying the farthest. We could take as long as we needed to get high enough to launch the shoe as far we could. Seemed harmless enough right? Well there were two problems. We didn't understand physics very well yet and there happened to be a large male mulberry tree 30ft from the swing set. If a shoe was kicked of at the highest point of the forward arc of the swing, the foot most likely sent the shoe straight up with little horizontal momentum. Sometimes the angle of the kick would just miss the sweet spot and the shoe would zing towards the tree. We even sometimes purposely tried to kick the shoe over the tree for bonus points. However, all of these antics led to many shoes getting stuck in the tree. My parents got sick of retrieving them and thus gave the game the ban hammer.

Hula Hoop Battle: Hula hoops could only entertain in their natural use for so long. Of course we found "better" ways to use them. In Hula Hoop Battle a minimum of two people were required, but you could include as many people as hula hoops you had. You and your opponent selected their hula hoop of choice and then stood about 25ft apart. Using a countdown of 3-0, you and your opponent would toss the hula hoops into the air at each of them. The goal was to hit your opponent's hula hoop and knock it backwards towards them. Every time you succeeded, you got a point. If they both went backwards, it was a draw and no points were awarded. If they both missed, also no points. The point cap changed each time we played so as long as you hit that number, you won. Children are not always aware of their surroundings as we liked to play this game near some pine trees. On occasion, a hoop or two would end up lodged in the branches of the pines. Those instances contributed to the game's banning, but the final nail in the coffin came on a cold, overcast, fall day. Tim and I were outside and playing with the hula hoops when I challenged him to a game. Things were going mostly well except for an argument or two of who got the point. Then, during one toss, I decided to heave mine up really high. It missed Tim's hoop, but began falling perfectly towards him. I think he was paying more attention to where his went because the moment he looked straight up, the hula hoop crashed into his face. The cold, hard plastic obviously didn't feel good and I didn't mean to hit him, but he went and told mom anyway. Not wanting to deal with more potential injuries, mom put an end to hula hoop battle.

Civil War: As most young boys do, if something we were playing with looked like a gun, we acted like it was a gun. Every once in awhile we'd come across a fallen branch or twig that looked like a shotgun or pistol. Then we'd pretend it was a gun and pretend to shoot each other. It ended up being a lot of "your dead!" and "no I'm not!" Over time we would find branches that were too perfect and we'd hide them in places where they wouldn't get ruined or taken. We also had plenty of walnuts around and they were small and green, just like grenades. We decided one day that we had enough to have an actual war. This war was going to be a three way battle between Zach, Tim, and myself. We grabbed all of our gun-sticks and walnut-grenades and took positions on the front hill facing the golf course. We each had a tree and began pretend firing upon one another. At some point, Zach and I thought it would be funny to team up on Tim and convinced him to go by the stone covering a drainage pipe. As he "fired" upon us, Zach and I took our hoard of walnuts and began launching them at Tim. I don't recall if we actually hit him, but I would say it was a good possibility because he quit mid barrage and told my mom. She was not pleased that we had made "guns" and were "shooting" each other. Her public enemy number one was also walnut stains. She gave us a pretty stern warning to not attempt this game again. In reality, while that was the last of Civil War, it didn't stop us from throwing walnuts at each other for all sorts of reasons in the future. 

Alligator: I'm cheating a little as this one wasn't 100% banned. More like, constantly stopped. We had a small gravel driveway flanked on both sides by two small banks. Those banks allowed us to pick up speed running down one side to be able to scale the bank on the other side with ease. We would even take small riding toys and see how far we could get. I don't remember whose idea this was, but one day we decided to create our version of Sharks & Minnows, not knowing that that game had already been in existence. The gravel driveway became a "river" and the person in the middle was the alligator. Everyone else had to try to run across without getting eaten (caught). Last person alive won and the first person caught became the new alligator. Nothing too crazy. The problem was that kids are clumsy. Add that in with us older ones being a little more rough and a gravel driveway, led to a bunch of cut-up knees and elbows. Once the casualties rose to an unbearable level, the game would receive a temporary ban.

Whack The Walnuts: This is the most notorious banned game of them all. It started harmless enough, but took a dramatic and scary turn which landed it on this list. Every year Grandma Watkins would make all of us kids Easter baskets. Well she wouldn't actually make the basket itself, but she'd buy the decorative grass and candy to fill them up with. The baskets she used were made to last as they were this incredibly hard plastic with a thin metal handle. You could leave it outside in the elements and it still wouldn't crack and fade as today's plastic baskets do. Sarah had a pink one that she saved all those years and it eventually ended up with our outdoor toys in the shed. One day, Zach and I found some rope and decided to tie it to the handle on the basket. Then we flung the basket over a low tree branch and filled it to the brim with walnuts. Zach then went and found the biggest branch he could carry and told me to pull the basket up and down like a piñata. Zach would then swing the large branch as hard as he could at the basket and try to knock out as many walnuts as possible. This game we invented became very popular amongst all of us kids and it was played quite often. I think we eventually made the rules that you got 10 swings or 5 bucket hits, whichever came first. You won by knocking out the most walnuts. Sarah also didn't mind us using that basket as it took hardly a dent from our brutality. It was always funny when someone whiffed really hard or the person pulling the basket up and down had to dodge rogue walnuts. This game managed to stick around for a long time, until one fateful late spring night. I was stuck inside with my dad going over my dreaded math homework. Suddenly, the door of the house swings open and we hear a loud wailing. Then as my Dad and I look up, there stood Tim in tears with blood streaming down his face. "WHAT HAPPENED!" my mom shouted aghast. "Stephen hit me in the head with a tree branch!" Tim wailed. Apparently, Tim was the one pulling the basket up and down and 3-4 year old Stephen was the one swinging at the basket. I don't know why they thought it was a good idea to let a kid under the age of 5 use an incredibly large branch for this game. Thankfully, Tim's head wound turned out to be a small cut and no stitches were required. Unfortunately for us, one of our favorite invented games was banned effective immediately after that incident.

(Bonus) Sled Wars: Sled wars was never actually banned but based on the previous causes for banning a game, it should've been. Every winter, once the hill in our front yard was covered in snow, we hauled out plastic sleds, foam sleds, snow boards, and basically anything that could shred snow. Being the creative kids that we were, simply riding and racing sleds wasn't enough. We created a no holes barred version where as soon as you took off you did whatever was necessary to win. Some of the stunts I pulled were as follows: If my opponent passed me, I would leap out of my sled, onto my opponent's, and try to push them out and win the race in their sled. I would try to race down standing on the sleds at times and maintaining balance was hard enough. But it was more crazy when we tried to physically push each other over while racing down the hill. I sometimes deployed my other siblings to interfere with whomever I was racing. One more fun, but usually ineffective tactic was to load up the back of the sled with snow balls and wail them at each other on the way down. One could say sled wars was probably the most dangerous game, but we loved it more than the bumps and bruises we acquired than to tattle to our parents that so-and-so hurt us.

There were a handful of other very minor games that we did not event, but got banned due to things like broken windows, broken toys, or having country club members get mad at us. There were probably other games that my siblings created that got banned, but these were the most memorable to me. Even though many were short lived, they did indeed cure our boredom.

The Story of My Life: A New Addition and a Taste of the 90s

I loved the 90s. Not entirely because I'm biased. Not entirely because I grew up in them. But mainly because of what they brought and what they meant to me. The movies, the culture, how we hung out on weekends, the music, the toys, etc. You may be reading this and thinking how could you fully appreciate all that under the age of 10? Or how "the good ol' days" can be attributed to every generation. Believe it or not, I did have awareness and appreciation at that age and because I that was my life experience, the 90s are my good ol' days.

Movies and TV shows as a kid were a big factor. In 1994, Disney released The Lion King. If I need to say anymore as to why that is a big deal, then you've been living under a rock. In 1995, Pixar released Toy Story. Yes, THE first Toy Story which is now 26 years old. That movie revolutionized animated movies. It flooded the culture. It made kids like me see toys in a whole new way. When burger king released Toy Story toys in their kid's meals, you better believe I managed to get my parents to take me so I could get the large set of toy army men from the movie. That very Christmas I was given a Mr. Potato Head toy that I still own to this day. The amount of non-animated family friendly movies were huge. Movies like Air Bud, Beethoven, Homeward Bound, The Mighty Ducks, Free Willy, Summer of the Monkeys, Flubber, just to name a few. The movie experience wouldn't be complete without Blockbuster. Kids today will never know the experience of seeing that big blue sign being a welcoming beacon to a world of wonder and then entering the store to see hundreds of movies displayed to catch your eye. Towering racks of neatly organized candy and popcorn begging you to buy some, larger-than-life cut out posters of whatever movie star or animated character was hot that year displayed throughout the store. Since our parents would only let us choose one or two movies, we'd take our sweet time fretting over which movie we really wanted to see and which would have to wait until next time. And they were all VHS tapes. DVDs had just made their entrance into the world late 1996 and the excitement of finally picking out a movie and taking it home, to the slight disappointment you'd have to wait for two-four minutes for the tape to rewind because the last renter failed to do so, to the giddiness of seeing the MGM Lion, the Paramount stars, or the Disney castle open the film in all its low quality, grainy goodness. What a time to be alive.

TGIF. The acronym for Thank God It's Friday, meant a whole lot more to me as ABC used if for a Friday night spectacular. I always made sure chores and homework were done because I was not missing TGIF. The line-up changed throughout the 90s but included the likes of Full House, Family Matters, Boy Meets World, and Two of a Kind to name a few. These TV families were part of my Friday nights for years and no matter what kind of day I was having, they brought a little more joy into my life.

Music in the 90s had a broad range of popular genres. But one word comes to mid when I think of that decade. Boybands. Boybands ruled the 90s. From Backstreet Boys to N'Sync, to 98 Degrees, to Boyz II Men, to New Kids on the Block, I was jamming out to those tunes to my heart's content. My friend Zach who I mentioned previously, had just acquired the new 98 Degrees album. Their opening for it was a tuned voiced that said "98 Degrees is spreading all across the land". One night when Zach and his parents were outside, he turned on his boombox and pressed play. Then he played with the volume knob to make it sound like he was tuning a radio station. Then at the exact moment that opening came through the speakers, he stopped and let the full phrase come out. Then he turned the volume way down and his mom legitimately thought that she had just heard an actual weather report and went inside of the house to get out of what she thought was an oncoming heat wave.

One of the coolest toys I ever received was a 2XL Robot made by Tiger. I got it with Christmas money in early 1997. It took four D batteries and had it's own cassette tapes to play its programming. As the tape played, the robot would talk and ask you trivia questions that you could answer by pressing one of four buttons on its lower half. Since it required cassettes to work, you could also stick music cassettes in it and it would play them. CDs had been around since the 80s, but they didn't really overtake the cassette until the 90s and even then, cassettes managed to hang on through most of the decade. As new music was coming out, my friends still got cassettes to play in walkmans as those were still the way to go as CD players were expensive. One summer day, Zach brought over a new cassette tape. I didn't have a boombox, but I had my 2XL. The cassette was newly released in 1997 by a European band known as Aqua. They had began to achieve international success with this album mainly for the song on that album called Barbie Girl. That song is quite silly and sometimes cringy to my now adult self, but as a kid in the 90s, it was a lyrical masterpiece that we played on repeat on my little 2XL. 

I didn't care really about fashion then , but what six year-old does? However, the one popular clothing item I loved then and still wear to this day are the baggy jeans. They were cool then and to me, they were and are the most comfortable jeans to wear. Why skinny jeans for men ever became a thing I will never ever understand. The only downside to them was when riding a bike. I cannot tell you how many times while pedaling a bike that it would suddenly come to a screeching halt and my leg felt like it was going to get ripped off simply because the jeans got caught in gear and chain. The worst part was when they got caught so bad that I had to drag/carry the bike all the way to the house where I could acquire the proper tools to get unstuck. Even with that minor inconvenience, I still rocked them proudly.

I never dreamed of being an astronaut, but I spent countless nights staring into the sky gazing in awe at everything that hung there. Some nights I would not be satisfied until I spotted either the big dipper or little dipper constellations. 1997 brought a stargazing moment that captured me for the ages. Discovered in 1995, the comet Hale-Bopp came closest to the earth in late March, early April of 1997. It was incredibly bright and could been seen with the naked eye for 18 months. Every night when the sun dipped to the other side of the earth, I'd scan the night sky looking for that comet. Every time I saw it, my heart filled with mirth. Some days I'd be upset if I couldn't spot it right away, but once I did, I was in a happy place. This rare space occurrence had a deeper significance for me. Because in the month of May, one month after the comet had reached it's closest point to earth, my third brother, fourth sibling, now totaling five kids, named Stephen, was born. My parents dropped us other four kids off at Al and Sue's so they could go to the hospital. I cannot recall where we were coming back from with Al and Sue one night, but once we got back to their house, Al pointed into the sky and said "Look, someone's shining a flashlight in the sky." From that moment forth, every night until it disappeared, that comet was my flashlight. 

I already mentioned POGS as one of the 90s fads, but a classic toy made an incredible comeback. The yo-yo. Designed with thick, hard plastic edges and transparent faces that gave you a look at what was going on inside of it as well as having names like X-Brain, Fireball, and Maverick, these toys were in every kid's pocket or being walked as an imaginary dog everywhere they went. I eventually acquired a sleek, black X-brain yo-yo as a birthday gift that I still have to this very day. I never did master walking the dog though.

There's definitely more I could say about the 90s and I surely will later on, but this is only a taste after all. With the arrival of Stephen, he rounds out the older five kids of the Pennsylvania era. The next few chapters will take a pause from the timeline and will tell of different series of events that occurred during my childhood. Buckle up because it's going to be a fun trip down memory lane.

The Story of My Life: A Wild Week in the Dairy State

Wisconsin. The land where my existence began. The place my mother grew up. The state her side of the family calls home. For the first time since I was born, I would be spending a week there. And that week was one that would change my very young life.

Before I go further, I would like to establish the people you will possibly read about in this chapter or whenever I write anything about Wisconsin. First are my grandparents, Daniel & Lois. They were life-long farmers and still had the farm when we visited in 96. Then there was my aunt Linda, who is my mom's older sister and her then husband Duane. They have three boys who are my older cousins named Jeff, Mike, & Aaron. Next was my uncle Bob and his then wife Cecilia, first of my mom's three younger brothers. After him was my uncle John. The last of my mom's siblings and the youngest boy was my uncle Paul. Also living on the farm in a trailer house was my great Granny Sorensen (Daniel's mom). These are the most immediate family members. Of course there were other great aunts and uncles, second cousins, family friends, and they'll probably appear in other chapters. But for now, the above people are the ones who will appear frequently.

Let me now provide you with a description of what my grandparent's farm was like back in the 90s and through the eyes of a five year-old. First and foremost, they had a lot of land (as most farms did). I still to this day have not set foot on every acre. To get there, we drove down a two lane country road that wound through nothing but farmland as far as the eye could see. The lack of city pollution allowed for many a blue sky with fluffy white clouds that seemed to go on forever. Eventually, we would turn onto a dirt/gravel driveway, passing a large tree with a tire swing hung from it. Not far beyond that was a large tractor tire filled with sand which was a homemade sandbox. To the left of those stood a white farmhouse and a small trailer house where my grandparents lived and my great granny lived. As we passed all of these things, we would be hard pressed to miss the large red barn and silo towering above us. The dirt road we came in on continued to wind around the barn passing a handful of other buildings such as a small feed barn, a large storage shed, and a couple of tractor awnings. Just beyond those buildings came a site I didn't fully appreciate as a kid, but looking back I truly do now. My grandfather had a number of his old cars that didn't run anymore rusting in peace along this portion of the road. I'm a car person and one of my goals in life is to own a big enough piece of land where I can park my old cars once they've run their course. I'm pretty sure this goal came from my grandfather doing the same. 

The trail continued to wind all through the property. It passed large fields filled with whatever crop rotation was planted that year, thick woods, and pastures where cows grazed. In the middle of one of these fields was a large hill that was deteriorated on on side, making a sand/dirt pit that we spent countless hours playing in. The coolest way to get to this hill was to walk through the cornfield growing in front of it. The last thing I want to mention is that when you stood in the yard by the house and the trailer, and faced West, there was another large hill that went into a big, green field. This field will come into play in the future.

By 1996, the farm wasn't operating at full capacity anymore. The cows in the field didn't belong to my grandparents. Instead they belonged to another farmer that my grandparents were renting the land to. The barn still had hay stored up in the loft, but part of it was used as storage. Other than the cows, the only other animals were dogs, cats, and some chickens. When I say dogs and cats, there were a lot. There was my grandparent's dog Fifi (a little scottie/terrier mix I believe), a boston terrier named Max (he loved to drool), Bob and Cici's big dog Mindy, their brand new puppy Griz, and a couple of beagles (one's name was Gus). There were also many cats and kittens running around, but for some reason I don't remember the names of the ones on the farm in 96. Growing up I never had pets as my parent's lease didn't allow it. So being able to play with this many animals was a real treat for me.

Unlike cats and dogs, the cows weren't really pets. But that didn't stop my cousin Aaron from treating them as such. One hot sunny day, him and I went over to the outdoor water trough by the barn where some of the cows were hydrating. We climbed the wooden fence and stood on the rungs looking like kids in a Country Magazine farm photo. Aaron then pointed to a particular cow and said "that's Bessy and she's my girlfriend." I looked at him like he was nuts. "Yeah right" I said. He grinned, hopped over the fence, walked up to the cow, and climbed on her back. She stood up and walked around slowly. I stood in shock as she didn't seem the least bit annoyed. Aaron patted her back and said "Good girl Bessy." And that's the first and last time I ever witnessed anyone ride a cow.

I mentioned in previously that a number of firsts happened during this trip. The one I'm about to tell you nearly gave my mom a heart attack. Aaron was a teenager and his family owned a 4-wheeler. He was old enough and responsible enough to drive it. His family lived not far down the street at the time, so he would ride it down to the farm most days. One cool evening after dinner, he asked me if I wanted to drive it. Heck yeah I did. He put me on the front and then climbed on behind me. I put my hands on the handles preparing to drive, and he followed suit. Suddenly, the 4-wheeler started to go. I thought I was in control the whole time, but in reality, Aaron was the one with his thumb on the throttle and controlling all of the steering. We drove around the yard quite a few times and I remember my mom looking out the window and her face in shock seeing me on the front of the 4-Wheeler. But everything was fine as Aaron was in total control and didn't make it go fast enough to be a danger. But I was on top of the world "driving" a 4-wheeler for the first time in my life.

Another first is one that had a profound impact on my life. My grandfather did something for me that I plan on doing for my kids and hopefully grandkids one day. One morning he presented me with a bright yellow Snoopy fishing pole and some rubber baits. I was floored. It's my opinion that every child's first pole should be a Snoopy pole. I had and used that thing for years until I needed a new one. Before we could go fishing, we needed some live bait as well. So Grandpa and I went over to a soft patch of dirt by the barn and dug up a bunch of worms. I had no problem with this as I was fascinated by bugs, worms, and creepy crawlies as a kid. Once we had enough worms, Grandpa drove Aaron and I to one of Wisconsin's many lakes. He took his time showing me how to properly put a worm on the hook, how to hold the rod, how to cast it, and how to reel it. The most exciting part for me was the bobber. I watched it fly through the air as I made the cast and then land with a satisfying "plop" as it hit the water. It wasn't long before it started to dip below the surface. I got excited and wanted to reel it in, but my grandfather in all his wisdom, told me to wait until it was fully submerged. Once it did, he told me to give it a little jerk and start reeling. I could feel the extra weight of whatever I had hooked fighting back, but I wasn't going to let my first fish be the one that got away. I managed to reel it all the way into shore and was going bananas as I had landed a "big" fish, which in reality was a 5-7 inch sunfish but to me it was huge. It was right there in that moment that my love for fishing began, all thanks to Grandpa. I do also remember a very brief moment later in the week where someone caught a bunch of sunfish and we were going to eat them. My grandfather was going to fillet them and asked if I wanted to watch. Being curious, I said yes. He took the bucket of fish down to the musty, slightly dark basement. He pulled one out and set it on the table down he had down there. Then he took out the fillet knife. The moment he started cutting into that first fish, I bolted. My stomach was not prepared for that and I don't know why my mind thought cutting into fish wasn't going to make me squeamish. Needless to say, I've fished for many years since and keeping fish is part of the hobby. This means filleting them. So even though I chickened out watching fish being filleted at five years old, I've carved my fair share since then.

As kids, we were raised drinking milk. Something I strongly recommend lifelong as it provides calcium to the bones and is the reason I attribute to not ever having broken or fractured a single bone in my body to this day (I came close many times). But I experienced milk in a different way during this trip. I was given the chance to try unpasteurized milk and all you had to do to drink it was scoop the cream off the top. It was delicious and 100% better tasting than the pasteurized stuff. After a week of drinking it, pasteurized milk tasted like water from an unrinsed milk glass. And no it's not dangerous as I'm living proof of that as is my mom and her family who grew up drinking it like that.

One last memory I'll share with you from this trip was the family gatherings. Every time we go to Wisconsin, we have a big cook-out at either my grandparents farm or at Aunt Linda's house. Because we don't see them often, a lot of people show up. Aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, first cousins, second cousins, and even many family friends. It's basically a mini reunion. There's always tons of food, kids running everywhere, and people enjoying being with each other. It's always a highlight of each adventure here.

Eventually, the days flashed by and we had to return home. It would be four long years until we returned and I couldn't wait. I gained a lot from this trip alone, as it made numerous impacts on my young life. Little did I know then that more learning experiences were yet to come.

The Story of My Life: 1996

Why title a chapter with a single year? Because this year took me on a whirlwind of a ride that I'll never forget. January stormed in (literally) with a massive blizzard dumping over three feet of snow upon our area. At the same time that blizzard hit, my brother Nathaniel was born. For those of you keeping track at home, that's four kids now. Three boys and a girl. I remember those days being quite crazy as my Dad had to constantly shovel snow to keep up with the weather and the snow plows and also commenting how the stores were lacking bread, milk, eggs, and all those other food staples due to the blizzard. On top of that, he and my mother had a newborn to deal with. But for me, it was a blast. Three feet of snow was a child's dream. Snow forts could be built incredibly high and deep, guarded by a snowman army that took a couple of days to construct. The hills would not show green grass for well over a week thus allowing for endless hours of sledding upon them. But the best part was after a long day of snow adventures, a steaming mug of hot cocoa and a movie while snuggled up in blankets were waiting for us. 

Sometime between the spring and summer, five year old me asked my mom if I could call Grandpa (my Dad's father). She dialed up the landline and handed me the receiver. I'm pretty sure my grandmother answered and made me talk to her for a bit before putting Grandpa on the phone. Once he was on, I asked him if he could pick me up and we hang out. Of course he got permission from my mother first and she was more than happy to have him take me out of her hands for a bit. But what she didn't know was that I had a mischievous plan in play. I was sitting on those concrete steps eagerly awaiting the arrival of that light blue pick-up truck. As long as I knew him, my grandfather drove pick-up trucks. If fact, he still drove them to the ripe old age of 91.  It was always an exciting moment when it appeared around the corner. Once it did, I jumped off the steps, shouted "Bye Mommy" and hopped into Grandpa's truck. I then promptly asked him if we could go to the store. We drove into Hanover and stopped at the K-Mart (now on the verge of extinction in 2021). We wandered around the toy aisles for a bit and I had a blast pressing all the buttons on the toys that said "try me" on them. Eventually we found ourselves in the Lego aisle. All I had at that time were the giant Duplo blocks from my toddler years. Those and the yearly Toys R Us (RIP) Big Toy Book made me want to own some actual Lego sets of my own. As my eyes grew bigger at each set I looked at, my eyes fell on a specific one. It was in a small blue box and on the outside was a picture of a red, white, and blue airplane. Appropriately named "The Patriot Jet", it called to me. Not yet being fully educated in manners (or forgetting them in the moment), I asked Grandpa if I could have it. To my surprise and delight, he said yes. Now here's the thing. That set cost $19.99 in 1996. Which was a lot for a toy back then, especially for a five year old. And on top of that, my Mom wasn't there to say no. Lego plane now purchased, we made our way back to his truck. I thought we were going back to Grandpa's and Grandma's house, but Grandpa had to get me back by dinner. We got back to my house and I flew up the steps to the front door where my Mom was waiting. Upon seeing that I got into the house fine, Grandpa tooted his horn, waved, and drove off. "Look what I got!" I exclaimed to my mom. Her jaw dropped as she realized what I had done. She couldn't believe I had asked my grandfather for a toy like that and that he actually bought it. I spent a good bit of time putting that plane together and it became a main staple whenever I played with Legos at home. Like many sets I owned later, I took it apart and built other things with it. It wasn't until I was in my college years that my nostalgia hit and I wanted to rebuild that plane. Thankfully I had most of the pieces and the ones I was missing I found online. That plane is proudly displayed in my room to this day and is a daily reminder that in 1996, my love for Legos was born.

Summer of 1996 topped the one in 1995. This time around, I was in for a three trip treat. I returned to both Hershey Park and Ocean City, but the third trip was to Wisconsin where my mom's side of the family resides. The second Hershey trip consisted of the exact same crew as last time, but my dad came along as well. There wasn't any extraordinary thing that made this visit different from the last, but it was still a magical experience nonetheless with my summertime crew of Becca, Zeke, Chalene, Cam, and Joe. 

I do want to highlight this second Ocean City trip as three more people were involved and there are some stories that I can't leave out. Joining us this time were both my grandparents from my mom's side and my newborn brother Nathaniel. Now I'm not the only one in my family who has a very retentive memory. It turns out Nathaniel does as well. There was an afternoon we were all on the beach, enjoying the sand and the ocean. Nathaniel was strapped in his stroller and was facing the water. At one point the wind picked up and the sun was bright. We looked at Nathaniel and thought he was getting sand blown in his face. My mom turned his stroller around away from the wind. Now here's the kicker. Nathaniel was only about six months old at this time. One night years later when we were reminiscing on this trip, we brought this memory up and Nathaniel piped in "Yeah I hated that." We looked at him like he was crazy. He said "I was happy looking at the ocean and no I was not getting sand in my face. Then y'all turned me around and left me to stare at...sand. It sucked." He remembers that from only being six months old! 

We avoided the previous year's no kite fiasco by bringing our own kites this time. We brought them on the beach and began flying them happily. Then at one point I see my dad take off down the beach. At the last second before he disappears from my site, I saw him chasing a kite. Apparently a burst of wind came by and yanked the kite from Sarah's child fingers. Thus resulting in my Dad chasing it down the beach. He did eventually manage to corral it. Later that day, I was playing with my bucket when a man walked by and gave me a starfish he had found on the beach. It was the first time I ever saw a live one. I filled half the bucket with sand and added water to it. Then I put the starfish inside and brought it back to our rented house. My parents only let me keep it for a day before I had to return it to the ocean. That one was lucky. I managed to catch one on my own the next day, but my mom wouldn't let me keep that one. So after admiring it for a bit, I tossed it back into the ocean like I was throwing a rock. At that moment, a seagull swooped down in the area where the starfish landed and then took off. I heard my Mom mumble "Uh-oh. I hope that bird didn't eat that starfish." Then she looked at me wondering if I knew what was going on. I didn't, but I did hear her and I was sure then that the bird failed. But today when I replay that memory in my mind, I think there's a good chance that the starfish became lunch that day.

The Wisconsin trip was a big deal because it was the first time I could actually remember being there and a number of "firsts" happened during that trip. But I'm going to save that one for a chapter of its own as there's many things that happened on that adventure.

The last major life event of this year was that in the Fall, I began school. However, it was anything but ordinary. My classroom was my basement and my teacher was my mom. I was officially a home schooled student. And I was going to remain one for the next seven years. My desk was a large, circular, wooden table. My mom had a large, black, metal desk. The rest of the "classroom" consisted of a washer, a dryer, a freezer, a couch, a TV, and a bunch of toys. The floor was a weird black slate tile with colorful patterns on it. If you didn't wear socks or shoes, it turned your feet black. There were a couple of windows so at least we had some natural light. To make it feel like more of a classroom, my mom put up educational posters all over the walls, along with a small blackboard and dry erase board. 

Home school had its advantages as well as disadvantages. The pros were that as long as we covered the daily material, we could start whenever we wanted and finish whenever we wanted. Most days I started at 8:30am and be done by 1PM. But as I got older and got the hang of things, I simply studied my mom's lesson plan and was able to do most things myself except for a test or new lesson. By the 6th grade, most days I was done with everything by 11AM and had the rest of the day to myself. I had one on one attention meaning there was no rush to get to the next lesson and I learned what I needed to know before moving on. Our summer vacation was longer. I'd be done with homeschool by the first week in May and not have to start again until very late August. I also didn't have to be stuck in my house every day. If we wanted to do a field trip day somewhere we could. If my mom wanted to send me over to Alice's (the mother of Melinda and Joanna) to do computer work, she could. And lastly, I had very little homework since I did it all in class. The cons of this however was that I didn't get extended holidays (2 weeks winter break and spring break), I didn't have the privilege of learning with peers and making friends in school, not being able to participate in extracurricular activities or school events, and my least favorite, having to go over all my math homework in the evening. This was because my dad is the math whiz of the family and it was easier for him to go over it with me after dinner. It was only my least favorite because it left me little time to play between dinner and bed-time when I had to do it. We'll talk about homeschooling more in later chapters as it can't be summed up in a paragraph or two.

As I continue through the years, I'll flashback or dedicate certain chapters to stories as certain parts of my life are better put collectively. Not all years will be like the bliss of 1996, but that's life is it not?

The Story of My Life: Take Me Back to That Ocean City

The second of my grand adventures took me to a place where the waters of the Atlantic kiss the east coast. A tourist trap it may be deemed, but as a young child exploring life, this place was paradise. Located on a long strip of land just off Maryland's eastern edge, was the vacation hub known as Ocean City. A sprawling beach metropolis with a boardwalk that stretched for miles that draws crowds summer after summer. 

My parents rented a beach house that had direct access to the beach. In my eyes it was huge. The living room was bigger than ours as was the kitchen set-up just off of it. It had a large deck that you could hang out on and stare at the dunes while listening to the sound of the crashing waves. It also had direct access to the beach so if we wanted, we could roll out of bed, throw on some swim trunks, and be by the water in mere minutes. But the best part in my eyes was cable television. A treasure trove of cartoons I couldn't watch back home were at my finger tips. But I wasn't on my first real vacation to watch cartoons. I had an ocean city to explore.

Mornings were for sleeping in and eating a decent breakfast, followed not long after by lunch. But once the sun was at it's peak, we had on our swim trunks and eagerly ran down the sand trails to the massive beach before us. The crashing waves had me in awe and I had no fear of them, unlike a certain raft ride at Hershey Park. I happily played along the edge, running to where the water retreated and then as soon as the next wave came barreling down, I fled back towards drier sand. I spent hours doing this, but once or twice, the waves bested me. I remember pausing during a run thinking I had time to examine the pebbles and shells before me. I underestimated my timing and saw a large wave barring down on me. I turned to run, but slipped and felt the force of all that water tackling my miniscule frame. As quickly as it came, the wave fled back to the ocean. I was a bit disoriented, but I finally knew what salt water tasted like.

I took a break from the ocean and joined my brother and sister in building sand castles. We had colorful, hard plastic, buckets and shovels specifically made for building sand castles. My mom showed us that we needed to make sure the sand was so our structure wouldn't crumble as we built it. Once we had what appeared to be a castle, we dug a moat around it and put some water inside to make it look realistic. My hope was that they would last while we were there, but I learned about this thing called "high tide" and how it is the ultimate castle crusher.

As the evening rolled in, there was still a lot to discover. We made our way to the seemingly infinite boardwalk. Crowds of people were there, exploring the shops, buying souvenirs, or just grabbing a bite to eat. We ourselves had to take care of our energy depleted beings so we stopped inside a small burger and shake shack. I remember the burger tasting really good and was impressed by the size of the steak fries. After our bellies were satisfied, we continued our boardwalk journey. Along the way we passed incredibly constructed sand sculptures mainly portraying the artist's thought of what Christ looked like. I marveled at how someone could make something so cool and detailed out of simple beach sand.

Souvenirs were a must and Pogs were all the rage in the 90s. Someone got this brilliant idea to put art on the cardboard caps that came under the lid of a popular Hawaiian juice called POG and manufactured them as a game. They were mainly meant to collect, but if you wanted to play, you and your friend would make a stack out of all the Pogs you were willing to risk. Then each of you would take turns with a heavy metal or plastic disc (called a slammer) slamming it on the pile. Any Pogs that flipped over were yours for the taking. Once half than more than half the stack had been won, the game was over. Both players kept all the Pogs they flipped and were returned their original ones that did not. So when we walked into a souvenir shop, I just had to have an Ocean City blue metallic slammer. That slab of metal became one of my most treasured possessions throughout my childhood until it mysteriously disappeared years later. 

We continued on the boardwalk and my senses took over. The sea gulls squawked overhead looking for a likely victim to snatch food from. The lights and sounds from the shops and restaurants were well noted as they did their best to draw the vacationers in and separate them from the cash in their wallets. The scent of cotton candy, popcorn, burgers, fires, ice cream, and so many other delectable smells filled the evening air. I was so immersed in my surroundings that I did not realize we had made it to toy shop. My mom took a break on a nearby bench while my dad took us inside as we were supposed to get kites to fly for the weekend. For reasons beyond my current understanding, we did not end up getting them. Instead my Dad bought us each gumballs and whirly-gigs. A whirly-gig was a plastic rod connected to a large plastic circle. Attached to the plastic circle where multiple colored plastic propellers that spun as the rod was waved in the wind. We were elated and as we rejoined my mom, she asked where the kites were. My dad made a "shh" motion and mouthed something to her that I was not able to apprehend. I have my suspicions that either they were too pricey or they weren't kid appropriate. Either way I was content with whirly-gigs and gumballs. 

We made one more stop before heading back to our beach house. That stop was a brightly lit candy store. My dad purchased a large mixed bag of swedish fish candy. My mouth drooled at the colorful bag of gummy fish. But when weren't allowed to have any until we got back (probably to avoid sticky fingers). Upon arriving back at the beach house, Sarah, Tim, and I watched excitedly as Dad divided a handful out amongst us. I'm pretty sure this was the moment where my love for swedish fish was born.

The next day, before we set out, my parent's called me into their room and had something to give me. There on the bed, still in it's package, was a child's film camera. I went nuts. Now for those of you born after 2007, you may not be familiar with nor have ever seen a standard film camera. Basically you had to purchase a roll of film and insert it into the back of the camera. Then, once you closed the film door, you turned a knob to wind the film into place, usually determined by a clicking sound. At this point, you could not open that film door again until you had wound the film back into the film roll, otherwise the light that hit the film sheet would expose it and ruin it. In order to take a picture, you'd close one eye and use the other to look through the viewfinder. Whatever you saw through that finder was your best guess of what was going to appear on that picture. Once you saw what you wanted, you pushed the shutter button to take the picture. Then you'd have to wind the film knob until it clicked to go to a blank spot in the film. In order to get your pictures, once the film was used up, you'd have to wind it back into the roll. Then you'd take the roll to Walmart or a drug store. You'd fill out a special envelope, put the film roll inside, and drop it in a box/slot. Then you'd have to wait 3-7 days for an employee to develop the film. And this was the scary side of this technology was one, you didn't know for sure how the pictures were going to turn out and two, at least one stranger saw every photo you took. I always wondered how much fun the film developers had seen thousands of strangers photos from the best moments in life to the raunchy ones. Being a young child and not quite understanding the limitations of a film camera, I was so excited to be able to take pictures that I used up my entire roll of film trying to take pictures of kites flying over the dunes. Needless to say, when the pictures were developed, you could barely see the kites. So from that trip I was left with a bunch of pictures of timothy grass covering the dunes. Life lesson learned. 

Rain came down most of the day that day which ruined our beach plans. My parent's pivoted and took us to indoor mini-golf for the afternoon. We played at least two courses. Dad took Sarah and I the first round while my mom watched Tim. The only thing I remember from that course was that it was dinosaur themed and Sarah had a frightening moment. One of the holes required you to go through a semi-dark cave. Half-way through it was a crevice. As we were playing the hole, we had to pass by the crevice. We knew something was up, but Sarah was too little yo notice what was going on. When she got close, a large green mechanical dinosaur popped out of the crevice and made a roaring sound that scared her half to death. She ran back to my dad in a panic and refused to finish that hole.

The second course was an undersea course with large sea creatures everywhere and blue-colored greens. Mom was with Sarah and I this time while Dad watched Tim. The most memorable hole on this course was one with a life-sized mechanical diver. You had to hit the ball up a hill towards the diver into a large hole. Once you got the ball in the large hole, it funneled the ball into a pipe that lined up directly with the main hole. The catch was that the diver moved up and down to try to block your ball from the big hole. Four year old me had a moment I won't ever forget. I stared that dastardly diver down, aimed my shot, and when it felt right, let her rip. I watched intently as that tiny ball soared up the hill, barely clearing the diver's legs, swirl around in the big hole, and let out an ecstatic "whoop!" when the ball came through the pipe into the main hole for a hole-in-one. I was the best and you couldn't tell me otherwise. My mom was not so fortunate, however. Her first and possibly second shot ended up being blocked by the diver's antics much to her disdain and my amusement. 

We finished the round and headed back to find my dad and Tim. But what we found instead was my dad looking for Tim. My dad turned his head for a second and Tim disappeared. Before panic mode could kick in, he looked over towards the arcade games and saw movement behind one of them. He went to take a look and there was Tim, hanging out behind it. I'm going to preface future chapters by saying this would not be the last time Tim, and my other siblings for that matter, would pull scary disappearing acts.

My memory of this trip ends here. I feel like we were here longer than a weekend, but I cannot recall if that was the case. Thankfully this would not be my only visit here as we would return in the summer of 1996. And this concludes my two epic summer adventures of 1995.