It's true confession Wednesday. It seemed that a rite of each summer would be that week of racing our homemade buggies, (like soapbox derby racers, but without all the rules), down college hill. We spent the week building our new models in our garage, complete with wheels taken off an old baby carriage we found in the neighborhood dump. Now, there was always the debate: build it light to go fast, or build it heavy, so with the momentum of the long hill, it would really be rolling by the time it reached the bottom. One year, we were short on wood and B- and S- said the old dilapidated building next to their house had some perfect pieces for our latest model. They went on to say their neighbor worked during the day, and we might 'borrow' a few boards. Needless to say (we were 12), the deed was done. It turned into the perfect buggie that won countless races down that hill that summer. A few years later in religion class, I discovered I had something called scruples, and I ventured back to that summer morning rummaging around in that building for wood. I guess I was a bad boy.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
True Confession
It's true confession Wednesday. It seemed that a rite of each summer would be that week of racing our homemade buggies, (like soapbox derby racers, but without all the rules), down college hill. We spent the week building our new models in our garage, complete with wheels taken off an old baby carriage we found in the neighborhood dump. Now, there was always the debate: build it light to go fast, or build it heavy, so with the momentum of the long hill, it would really be rolling by the time it reached the bottom. One year, we were short on wood and B- and S- said the old dilapidated building next to their house had some perfect pieces for our latest model. They went on to say their neighbor worked during the day, and we might 'borrow' a few boards. Needless to say (we were 12), the deed was done. It turned into the perfect buggie that won countless races down that hill that summer. A few years later in religion class, I discovered I had something called scruples, and I ventured back to that summer morning rummaging around in that building for wood. I guess I was a bad boy.
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'wood'n't do it again, 'wood' you?
ReplyDeleteConfession is good for the soul.
ReplyDeleteI like the looks of this old shack. Lots of character.
ReplyDelete'borrowed'. :)
ReplyDeleteI really like the weathered effect, it's a beautiful little building!
ReplyDeleteYes, you were a bad, bad boy, and Gorgeous in Ocala certainly has your number! See you soon! :-)
ReplyDeleteCertain memories have a nasty way of making us feel guilty...very guilty.
ReplyDeleteReminds me of the years that my sons built those Pinewood Derby cars when they were in scouts... One year, one of my sons won!!!! I was so proud of him...
ReplyDeleteBetsy
C'mon, Birdman, don't punish yourself too much. You just borrowed the boards.
ReplyDeleteI don't know how you survived to become an adult, and an apparently decent one at that.
ReplyDeleteLove that shed.
ReplyDeleteSo your scruples had the victory.
ReplyDeleteI must have been 5 or 6 when I stole a small seashell from the second-floor neighbor's back porch. But then I was overcome with remorse for being bad. I returned it, but the bad memory of the guilt was enough to make me never steal again.
Only half a century later did I learn that such scallop shells were the symbol of pilgrims.