Music Says It All

Son and Grandson

My second son is a large man.

Large.

Six foot eight in his stockinged feet. When he puts boots and a hat on, considerably taller.

And he is a body builder.

He works as a cop in our fair city.

Let me put it this way . . .

No one argues with him.

They just nod politely and do as he asks.

His very first day on the job, he and his partner responded to a knife-wielding incident. When he got out of his car, the 'perp' took one look, dropped the knife and spread-eagled himself on the sidewalk.

Size is important.

But the man inside the uniform is a gentle, loving person.

And tons of fun.

Before he began to serve with the police, he spent eight years with the armed forces, reaching the rank of Sergeant.

And he drove a big truck.

These two points are important.

Moving on . . .

One day, he was on his way home from the army base driving the aforementioned (good word) truck. It was a beautiful, warm day, and his windows were opened wide.

His head was shaved and he had his army kit on.

He looked every inch the soldier he was.

He was 'in the zone'. Listening and moving to his favourite music, blaring from two powerful speakers.

I should mention here that his favourite music probably isn't what people expect to hear from a head-shaved, muscular, giant of a man in army fatigues.

And sunglasses.

In a monster truck.

But pouring from the speakers were The Archies.

And they were singing their hit song, "Sugar, Sugar".

He stopped at a stoplight.

Still grooving.

Then he glanced to his left.

A small pickup was just pulling up beside him.

With three teenage boys in the seat.

All of whom were staring at him.

Up at him.

Their expressions were . . . interesting.

My son grinned at them and nodded. Still bobbing to the rhythm.

The light changed and he drove on.

But the small truck stayed where it was.

I think he frightened them.

Who says you need a weapon to intimidate?

Sometimes all it takes is the right music.

Stay on the Sidewalk Where it's Safe

My rocketship.

Occasionally, when Mom got tired of driving twenty miles of dirt roads for everything, my parents would move the family to our town house.

The one in town.

It was a whole different lifestyle for me.

I had a tricycle.

Red.

Sturdy.

With a little plastic tassel hanging from one handle grip that waved in the breeze when I went really, really fast.

Which I did.

Often.

I was the master of the universe!

I could go anywhere!

As long as I stayed on the sidewalk.

The streets around our block were 'dangerous'.

There were dragons there.

Okay, so Mom described the dangers as speeding cars that would flatten me into a pancake, but I put my own spin on it.

It was so much better.

So, back on the tricycle.

I rode it endlessly.

Doing laps of our block.

The different homes were categorized according to points of interest or what foodstuffs could be procured there.

Lodemier's house, where the baloney sandwich ruled supreme at snack time, and where best friend lived. Reese's house, where good cookies could be found at any time. Madge's house, another food emporium. Winter's house, with the cute, fuzzy Pomeranians. And so on.

It was paradise.

For me.

I'm not sure what they thought when Diane pulled onto their sidewalk on her trusty steed.

At least they were kind.

And polite.

But I knew that there was nothing more interesting than the homes on our block.

Why would anyone venture out onto dragon-infested gravel in search of anything else.

It just didn't make sense.

So I stayed on my sidewalk.

And was safe.

Most of the time.

There was an alley running the length of our block. The back yard of every home opened onto it. It was a hive of activity every day as dozens of children ran and played.

Occasionally, it was used for vehicles.

Go figure.

Our neighbour, especially, was known to park his huge grain truck there during harvest, to keep the behemoth (real word) off the street.

And that simple act diminished the safety margin by a factor of 100.

I don't know what that means, but it sounds . . . unsafe.

On this particular afternoon, our neighbour had come into town from his farm for lunch.

Having finished said lunch, he had strolled back out to his truck to return to work.

I had also recently finished my lunch. And was on my way to his house for a much-needed cookie fix.

For a short while, the two of us occupied the same general space.

But his vehicle was vastly superior to mine.

In size at any rate.

I was just crossing the entrance to the alley, safely staying on my sidewalk as he was backing his truck up.

I should mention here that trucks in those days didn't have warning beepers or rear-view cameras.

In fact, they barely had mirrors.

Needless to say, my neighbour didn't see me.

Or my tricycle.

It could have been a disaster.

I pulled into the alley entrance,

And stared, transfixed at the enormous blue box of the truck backing, slowly but steadily, towards me.

This was different.

Closer. Closer.

Huh. Something whispered that maybe I should get off my tricycle and move to the side.

I did so.

The truck kept backing.

Backing.

There was a tiny crunching sound as it ran over my tricycle.

Huh. There's something you don't see every day.

The driver kept backing, oblivious to what had just happened.

He waved at me cheerfully as he went past. Then, reaching the street, he reversed direction and headed out.

I watched him go.

Then looked at my tricycle.

Or the little mashed-together bits of metal that used to be my tricycle.

Sigh.

Dad would fix it.

I ran home.

Dad did fix it. And it looked even better when he was through.

Brighter red.

And two little tassells instead of one.

And I think he made it a little bigger.

Dads could do anything.

Soon I was back on the sidewalk again.

Conquering worlds.

Staying safe.