We all had close calls as kids, right?
Were we crazy? Naaaa … just young. No fears. And a bit stupid.
Like that day in Millington years ago.
My aunt lived at the top of a steep hill on a street that rolled into that tiny town. I grabbed my cousin’s bike, eager to sail down that hill. I was young, but way too big for the tiny two-wheeler.
Anyway, I’m on fire. Pedaling as fast as I can. Wind in my hair and face. Feeling the power.
So I decided to stretch out my arms. You know, “Look ma, no hands!”
Before a second heartbeat, I was sailing over the handlebars into the pavement.
I limped away with a chipped bone in my wrist, lots of scrapes — and alive.
I was not wearing a helmet. No one wore helmets.
Like many boomers, I survived dangerous times.
My first-grade recess was in an alley covered in cinders. Nearby was a pile of used lumber — nails poking out everywhere.
Summertime meant several sunburns. The best part was peeling the skin later.
I sucked water from a dirty hose, chewed on grass, explored drainage tiles, and snuck through backyards at night.
On summer evenings we became a buffet for mosquitoes, but our town had a fogger machine. We grabbed our bikes and followed that little truck, hiding in the billowing, toxic cloud.
I suppose my karma clock is still ticking. My experiences might come back to haunt me.
But that's life. Right?
At my age, I'm over the top and going lickety-split down that hill again.
And maybe .... maybe ... I'll spread my arms wide again one more time. Or two.
I’m Lonny Cain, and that’s my perspective.