Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Right Between the Eyes!
Last Friday we visited Soldotna to see the state ice carving championships and to watch the Winter Games. The “Toss a Frozen Salmon” competition was very popular with contestants coming from five age categories. The Salmon Toss was not to be confused with the shot put. Form was mostly non-existent. Some merely grasped the fish with two mitten-covered hands and gave it a slight upward heave and seem entirely comfortable when the fish traveled all of two or three feet. One chap grabbed it by the tail, or what now passed for the tail since the salmon were beginning to show a lot of wear and tear, and swung it back and forth a few times before releasing the frozen slab. It would have been a lot easier if they had been chunking moon pies as they do every June in Shelbyville, Tennessee, in the Annual RC Cola -Moon Pie Festival.
Moon Pies and frozen salmon were about the only things we did not throw when I was growing up. My older brother preferred corncobs, especially corncobs that had been lying around in the horse lot, covered with you know what. Consequently, he found it a bit difficult to entice us into a “friendly,” little corn cob war. We much preferred green pine cones because our diminutive sizes and our equally diminutive target areas provided us with a distinct advantage in this war game. Our big brother was also at that awkward, clumsy age where he was not particularly well coordinated. Advantage kid brothers! One day our neighborhood was all in a tizzy because the Pittmans had just had their timber cut which meant there was a superabundance of green pine cones and plenty of places to hide and to strategically place our field hospitals. The boys divided into three or four factions and within minutes cones were flying in every which direction. Any hit was purely coincidental because everyone knew those things can really smart so a tactical war developed. A little head would bob up, take a quick look and heave a missile at any susceptible target and then drop back behind his cover—all this in the flash of an eye. One neighborhood ruffian got a little carried away. When a couple of stray shots sailed casually over his head, he popped up and began that childhood chorus “Nah! Nah! You missssssed…” and forgot how long it takes a Southerner to get his words out. He was a sitting target and took about five direct hits. It did not take him that long to head for home.
My friend Hoyt and I used to engage in green persimmon fights. Someone made a mistake of showing us how to spike a green persimmon with about a yard long springy stick and then draw it back over our shoulders and then whip it forward. The green fruit would sail through the air like a golf ball. We soon grew tired of whacking pine trees with our newly discovered weapons and then took a few trial shots at each other. We moved our arena to a couple of persimmon trees about thirty yards apart. Each of us scooted up a tree and found a branch just beckoning us like the serpent tempting Eve with forbidden fruit. Soon a green barrage was flying back and forth between the two trees. None of them carried much velocity because you need one hand to hold on to the tree and the other one with which to whip. Occasionally it was necessary to move to another branch when muntitions were depleted. Generally the other combatant took advantage of the lull in the action to scamper to another branch himself. Rarely did anyone get hit and then it was most likely on our pants. We both got lectures from our mothers for getting grass stains on our blue jeans.
When I was in graduate school my younger brother and I both came home for the Christmas holidays. It snowed! It was like manna from Heaven. It was everywhere! Even at that age it is hard to turn down a good snowball fight, especially when it provides a golden opportunity to compute the velocity and trajectories of that mysterious white matter now blanketing the front yard. We were both outside hunkered down behind our cars with a large stack of snowballs beside us. My older brother unexpectedly drove up and without making the requisite survey of the situation at hand grabbed a hand full of snow and hurled it at us. He was dumbfounded when he was pelted right and left with an unending barrage of white matter. Figuring that he had bitten off more than he could chew, he made a mad dash to the front door. Mother, who suddenly had become aware of a commotion in her front yard, headed for the door to put a stop to our little game. As she opened the door my brother dashed inside. Mother popped her head outside with her finger pointed in the air to give added emphasis to what she was about to say. Hoping to get my brother with a big one, I had let one fly as he was approaching the door. Yep! It hit my mother right between the eyes. My mother was completely speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. I don’t know if she saw it coming or not. I only know what I saw—my entire life flashing before my eyes. The war of the roses was over. It would be many years before I would ever throw another snowball.
Last Friday we visited Soldotna to see the state ice carving championships and to watch the Winter Games. The “Toss a Frozen Salmon” competition was very popular with contestants coming from five age categories. The Salmon Toss was not to be confused with the shot put. Form was mostly non-existent. Some merely grasped the fish with two mitten-covered hands and gave it a slight upward heave and seem entirely comfortable when the fish traveled all of two or three feet. One chap grabbed it by the tail, or what now passed for the tail since the salmon were beginning to show a lot of wear and tear, and swung it back and forth a few times before releasing the frozen slab. It would have been a lot easier if they had been chunking moon pies as they do every June in Shelbyville, Tennessee, in the Annual RC Cola -Moon Pie Festival.
Moon Pies and frozen salmon were about the only things we did not throw when I was growing up. My older brother preferred corncobs, especially corncobs that had been lying around in the horse lot, covered with you know what. Consequently, he found it a bit difficult to entice us into a “friendly,” little corn cob war. We much preferred green pine cones because our diminutive sizes and our equally diminutive target areas provided us with a distinct advantage in this war game. Our big brother was also at that awkward, clumsy age where he was not particularly well coordinated. Advantage kid brothers! One day our neighborhood was all in a tizzy because the Pittmans had just had their timber cut which meant there was a superabundance of green pine cones and plenty of places to hide and to strategically place our field hospitals. The boys divided into three or four factions and within minutes cones were flying in every which direction. Any hit was purely coincidental because everyone knew those things can really smart so a tactical war developed. A little head would bob up, take a quick look and heave a missile at any susceptible target and then drop back behind his cover—all this in the flash of an eye. One neighborhood ruffian got a little carried away. When a couple of stray shots sailed casually over his head, he popped up and began that childhood chorus “Nah! Nah! You missssssed…” and forgot how long it takes a Southerner to get his words out. He was a sitting target and took about five direct hits. It did not take him that long to head for home.
My friend Hoyt and I used to engage in green persimmon fights. Someone made a mistake of showing us how to spike a green persimmon with about a yard long springy stick and then draw it back over our shoulders and then whip it forward. The green fruit would sail through the air like a golf ball. We soon grew tired of whacking pine trees with our newly discovered weapons and then took a few trial shots at each other. We moved our arena to a couple of persimmon trees about thirty yards apart. Each of us scooted up a tree and found a branch just beckoning us like the serpent tempting Eve with forbidden fruit. Soon a green barrage was flying back and forth between the two trees. None of them carried much velocity because you need one hand to hold on to the tree and the other one with which to whip. Occasionally it was necessary to move to another branch when muntitions were depleted. Generally the other combatant took advantage of the lull in the action to scamper to another branch himself. Rarely did anyone get hit and then it was most likely on our pants. We both got lectures from our mothers for getting grass stains on our blue jeans.
When I was in graduate school my younger brother and I both came home for the Christmas holidays. It snowed! It was like manna from Heaven. It was everywhere! Even at that age it is hard to turn down a good snowball fight, especially when it provides a golden opportunity to compute the velocity and trajectories of that mysterious white matter now blanketing the front yard. We were both outside hunkered down behind our cars with a large stack of snowballs beside us. My older brother unexpectedly drove up and without making the requisite survey of the situation at hand grabbed a hand full of snow and hurled it at us. He was dumbfounded when he was pelted right and left with an unending barrage of white matter. Figuring that he had bitten off more than he could chew, he made a mad dash to the front door. Mother, who suddenly had become aware of a commotion in her front yard, headed for the door to put a stop to our little game. As she opened the door my brother dashed inside. Mother popped her head outside with her finger pointed in the air to give added emphasis to what she was about to say. Hoping to get my brother with a big one, I had let one fly as he was approaching the door. Yep! It hit my mother right between the eyes. My mother was completely speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. I don’t know if she saw it coming or not. I only know what I saw—my entire life flashing before my eyes. The war of the roses was over. It would be many years before I would ever throw another snowball.
