Bemory Blaine

Renewed my lift truck license and promptly set a hi-lo on fire yesterday. Today, on the other hand, I did fine. When I got home I read about a guitar brand that has finally decided to do something about design after a fortunate stumbling-upon at the local guitar store; Italia's Maranello Speedster looked and sounded marvelous.

Soon after, I mowed the lawn and sneezed a lot. Afterwards taking a breezy bikeride down Blaine Avenue, past my old babysitter's house (she was sitting on the porch, reading the paper), past the Wilson's newly painted driveway, down the old racing hill, round the bulbous corners of segmented Gentian and through Jaycee Park. In the park were some firsbee-ers, one of whom lost his disc in the leaves.

The park was totally and completely gentrified into an hospitable hangout. I remember the fear I felt and courage I use to have to muster up just to step foot in it 'round dinner time. As I glode along the new blacktop path through the rear end of the park I thought of Corey's old bike track. And though it was long gone I thought it quite ironic I was riding a bike, a bigger bike now, over the dead, beaten and paved-over ramps, dips and tabletops that we use to race around. Yes, much less deadly, with the topography less drastic. On the west end of the park I could see into my old babysitter's backyard. There was Doug cooking on the little spaceship grill! He looked so happy to be tending the grill, the type to get proud about the cooking. Perhaps it was venison or fish, the man's meat, feeding his gut and his clout at the same time. The yard looked massively cut back, I swear it had a terrace along the middle, and a big sandy Beach tree in the back.

The whole time I was in the park I was anticipating one thing, and one thing only; Dead Man's Hill, praying to the gods of development it was still there. Every town has one, and every kid has been dared to go down it, but this one was such a doozy. Lined with thick 100-year old trees on both sides, and hardly a path to go by around the roots and bunny hills. It was so frightful that all the rebelious litlun's, who would spite their parents by exposing their skulls to the pavement at high velocities, would always put their helmets back on. I remember a little black kid dared by his friends to go down without hands. He was shore sorrrrry for that. Even I had to ditch by bike and let it ghost ride wherever the oak knees and mole hills took it. To my elation, the old hill was still there, though much more toned down, with no trees on either side as opposed to dozens. It was also much smaller looking in length, yet tickled my memories by retaining its extreme angle. The blacktop took a slightly different path though, around the actual 'starting platform' of old DMH and down around the new plastic, Mrs. Frankenstein-hair-inducing play equipment.

The silent humm of my road wheels left only the wind and laughter of a little blonde boy after he said "Wowwww" when I blew by. Smiling to all I rode by, and a nod, I peddled on high gear back up Blaine and past a complete stranger, this one grilling in his driveway, and waved. He waved back, and now I am complete.