Dredge Lake

I've done some thinking about how I concluded yesterdays post. I said that I was looking forward to the day when my kids ask for the keys to the car. Coincidentally, this morning, Jackson, my five year old son, asked me if he could drive the next time we go out. So there you have it, be careful what you wish for.

I worry about Jackson, mostly because he is just like me, which frustrates the hell out of my wife Beth. We took him on an airplane when he was a baby, and he took an interest in the man sitting across the aisle from us. The man looked at Jackson for a split second and went back to his magazine, then looked again, letting his gaze linger longer. This repeated for a couple cycles until he and Jackson were locked in a stare, like two kids trying not to blink; finally, he looked at me with a mix of amusement and bewilderment, "That is unnerving. I've never seen a baby that doesn't look away."

Jackson has always been serious and a deep thinker, is easily distracted and quick to get bored; just like my father, just like myself. Projecting forward, assuming that Jackson has been handed the baton in the family relay, I am in for a wild ride. And such would be my due.

My dad may be many things--frightening by any normal standard of parenting--but he gave me self confidence in my ability to face danger by putting his faith in me; faith in my ability to handle myself with a gun, behind the wheel of a car, riding motorcycles up sheer inclines of bored out strip-mines and narrow mountain roads. When I turned sixteen, he let me drive his Chevy Blazer which I mistook for an all terrain vehicle, with the help of my friends Mike and Danny.

Dredge Lake was an outdoor recreation area where we would go sometimes to hang out. The area approaching the beach was like a sandy mogul field, under which was a hard foundation like kiln dried clay, yielding sufficient traction for driving. You had to stay away from the beach however, an important safety tip disregarded by Mike, who had jumped a dune and stuck the nose of his car in the sand like a harpoon, for which we had brought the blazer to retrieve. I had a full load that night: Mike, Dan, and the girls Heather and Paula.

We made quick work of unsticking Mike's car, which he parked farther up from the beach and crawled back into the passenger seat, not wanting to lose any stage time with the girls.

"Let's do some four wheeling!" he suggested.

I protested. "Man, didn't you already learn your lesson Mike?"

He ignored me. "Dan," he said, "don't you think we should see what this truck is made of?"

"Damn straight," said Dan, chosen from his short list of stock expressions as he spit Copenhagen into an empty Coke can, where occasional misfires had dried onto the lid and pull tab.

He turned to Heather and Paula, cocked an eyebrow like Steve Martin, the Love God, like a Sultan addressing his harem, "Girls, tell Scott he needs to open it up."

"C'mon Scooter," they implored, "don't be so boring."

Whatever restraint I normally would have shown, ahem, was laid asunder for this attack on my masculinity. My manhood was on the line! Don't you get it?! What's wrong with you people??!!

I hit the gas and meandered a bit, careful to avoid any bumps, but pressure from my passengers goaded me into a shark-like feeding frenzy. The tail of the Blazer threw rocks and sand in Tsunami proportions, and despite my initial misgivings, I was having an outrageously good time.

We spun to a stop and faced a dune that made a perfect ramp for a jump, and I revved the engine to the red line. Everyone screamed, "Go for it!" As we flew through the air, gravity taught me an important lesson: the front of the car is much heavier than the back. We hit the ground at a 45 degree angle with a bone jarring impact. The back window fell from it's track and disappeared into the hatch, and the battery detached and fell onto the engine fan, which bit into the battery's plastic shell and burned a groove, emitting an awful grinding sound like an electric saw until I killed the ignition.

"Oh shit," I cried out, "my dad is going to kill me!"

We couldn't fix the back window, but we managed to get the battery back into it's casing, but the groove on it's side was deep and obvious.

I drove everybody home, and nobody said a word. My face was devoid of color, and everyone knew I was walking the Green Mile.

"What do you mean the window just fell!" my father screamed at me, staring into my eyes, looking for the crack in my plaster, his nose sniffing for the distinct musk of fear. I wore my mask perfectly as he railed me from all directions. He didn't believe me of course, but that microscopic seed of doubt was in his eyes, which saved me from a severe beating that he was itching to deliver.

Then he found the groove on the battery.

Ah, such fond memories. As the expression goes, we reap what we sow, and my garden was well fertilized.

But what really saved me from my father in those self absorbed teen aged years was what I am sure was a connection, a recognition on my father's part of his younger self.

Note to self: brace yourself, and always remember who you were.