in the goo
My neighbor Eddie and I must have said that rhyme 10 million times while walking round and round the huge tractor tire in his backyard.
The tire was filled with sand and “officially” his baby sister, Connie’s, sandbox.
But we owned it.
We walked in endless circles, spitting, and torturing Connie with the Baby Boo rhyme.
I was maybe 10, Eddie, 11, and Connie about 5.
Being a baby sister, Connie was drawn to us. She wanted to be on our team. She wanted to join in the conversation and the fun.
Being mean old boys, we wanted to make her cry, so it was all good.
And she would cry buckets, absolute buckets, of tears when we taunted her about the horrible tragedies we planned for her beloved doll, Baby Boo. (“The most fantastic doll ever!”)
Despite this never-ending torture, Connie was always the greatest cheerleader at our weekly Demolition Skateboard Derby.
We made our own skateboards. We’d grab a long board from behind one of the nearby houses under construction, cut a sharp point on the front, take apart some old clamp-on roller skates, and nail the wheels to the underside.
Children of today note: these were not sissy skateboards that a boy rode, while doing stupid tricks and listening to an iPod. No, my buddies and I sat on these beasts and thundered four- or even five-abreast down Eddie’s long Driveway of Death.
The idea was to knock your friends off-balance so they had to put their hands on the concrete. You would try to run over their knuckles, thus maiming them for life.
Almost always, only one boy would make it to the end of the driveway alive. On the rare occasion that two boys made it to the bottom, the goal was to push each other into the path of an oncoming car. No blood, no foul.
This was all good, clean, violent boy fun. But it wasn’t gross. And nothing died, cruelly. So, as great as it was, it left us with an unfilled need. Thankfully, there were flies.
Just before a summer thunderstorm, when the humidity was 100% awful, hundreds of flies would descend on Eddie’s carport. We’d race to Mr. Uhles’ store, buy 19-cent mini-dart guns, and let the carnage begin.
Humidity seemed to make the flies lethargic. Or stupid. So you could get up real close and, splaaat. We’d store the bug guts in our pill bottles, and kill again and again, for like an hour. The winner was whoever got the most bug guts OR put the bug guts on Baby Boo and made Connie cry.
But it wasn’t all fun and games under the carport. There was an ugly side to dart guns.
Once, Eddie made some dart-gun related transgression, and I took a swing at him. Because he was literally a foot taller, I had to leap into the air to connect with his chin. POW. He cried a single tear and then broke his expensive long-barrel dart gun across my leg.
It was our biggest fight. We didn’t talk forever. For at least a week. Until he came running up to my house, eyes wide open, and wearing the grin of a big brother with evil on his mind.
“Connie got a new Baby Boo!” he said gleefully, and off we raced, once again partners in crime.
Click here for free Hog Tweets at HogsAteMySister.
And remember to click Facebook LIKE, thanks!