"Makin' history on Butler Hill"

"My brothers and I were obsessed with speed.

We rebuilt every bike we were ever given and some that were “borrowed”, we simply used for pieces and parts.

We went so far as going through our fathers'  books on aeronautical engineering, learning about lift, drag and vortexes.

 

Once we even “borrowed" our step-sisters bike, secured a frame around the rear wheel and attached a wing to her banana seat.

Memory fails me if the wing was for lift, or downward pressure to keep us stable during our idea to set the land speed record down Butler Hill.

In any case, after several test runs on smaller hills, we were ready for the big day.

Now, as brothers will do, a slight case of fisticuffs broke out as to who was going to be the “Banana Wing” pilot.

 I won that privilege, though Scott the jack rabbit, became co-pilot when we realized the wing was a little floppy in the center.

So he became the butt that held the wing down.

Kris, the toughest kid in all of Butler, Utah history, was given the honor of riding the bike down our road to the top of Butler Hill.

As we walked the mile or so to the top of the hill, Kris announced to all that appeared that his older brother was going to fly down Butler Hill and make history.

I must mention here that no one had ever ridden a bike up the hill non-stop.

But more importantly, no one had ever gone off the top, straight down without their brakes, either coaster or lever under constant pressure.

As I steadied the bike so our wing-holder-downer could swing aboard; I looked at our two escape points, in case an error in our judgment should occur and pushed off.

We started gathering speed much faster than we planned, but I still kept my foot off the brake even as we flew by the first escape route.

I could feel my cheeks starting to flap in the wind just as Scott, (the butt that held the wing down) wrapped both his arms around me screaming “we’re all going to die.”

At that point he decided, even though are cheeks were flapping like socks on the clothes line, he was getting off.

I pointed the bike to the front yard of our second escape route and started applying the rear coaster brake.

My plan had been to cut across the driveway and power slide the bike to a stop on their front lawn.

I hadn't planned on missing the driveway.  And instead, flew over their two foot rock wall, where the wing the butt was holding down, did its job.  Offering us a twenty or thirty foot glide across the yard before crashing into the freshly mowed weed patch.

When I came to, I was covered with tumbleweed thorns and weed rash. Scott was ten or so feet away in just about the same condition, but rolled into the fetal position. 

It took a while, but the two of us came to our senses and started to pick up what was left of our step-sisters bike.

“You flew, you guys really flew!” Kris said running into the yard gathering parts as he came. 

“You almost killed me” Scott said over and over.

“Yea but look how far you flew!” Kris laughed, each time Scott whined.

If there’s a moral to this story it’s probably that coaster brakes don’t work when your airborne."

Hey, you be careful out there.  And stay to the light.
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'The Great Green Apple Raid'

"While wiggling my way down to a fishin’ hole I needed to skirt some private property.

Somehow, the leg of my jeans got hung up on the middle row of barbed wire. I started laughing thinking of the look Jane would give me, when I suddenly remembered Grandma holding my baby brother Kris’s jeans the afternoon of the great green apple raid.

It started out as most summers, three brothers enjoying each second of free time.

Fishing, exploring old haunts and searching out new ones. Every so often we’d sneaky-Pete into Mr.Oniki’s orchard and help ourselves to each fruit as it ripened on the tree.  Cherries, apricots, red apples and our ‘bestest’ favorite green apples. It was almost a ritual, guessing when each would ripen. Belly aches and diarrhea were common when we guessed wrong, but heck it was summer and that was supposed to happen. 

Anyway, as life would have it, grandma’s sister’s daughter’s daughter came for a late summers visit.

I won’t try to explain the effect a black haired girl from Ogden, Utah had on three teenage boys.  Especially Kris, as he was and is the Errol Flynn of the three of us and all it took for that dark haired girl to do was giggle about how good a green apple would taste.

Kris tugged on his bill-cap, got that smile goin’ and we knew where we were headed the next morning.

Mr. Oniki was a good and fair man, and often gave fruit away to anybody that asked.  For those that didn’t, nothing was spared.  He often chased kids with his tractor, waving an old 410 shot gun like it was a Samurai Sword, swearing he’d shoot the next kid he caught in his orchard.

As Scott and I got ready to head out, Kris was busy kickin dirt with the toe of his boot, whispering who knows what in that dark haired girl's ear.

“Come on Kris”, Scott whined. “Uncle Blaine’s going to town later and I want to go.”  We all knew Uncle Blaine wouldn’t take Scott any where but that dark haired girl didn’t, she just giggled pushing Kris away, “hurry back” she said. “I’ll be waiting”. 

As we squeezed through Mr. Oniki’s fence, Kris pulled a flour sack from inside his shirt and headed straight for the green apples. 

“Do we need that many?” Scott asked.

“Nope,” Kris laughed.  “But I’m taking that dark haired girl out to Bucks pasture and don’t want to run out.” 

We both started teasing Kris as we filled the flour sack with his treasure.

None of us heard Mr. Oniki’s pick-up truck till it was too late.

Scott heard the door shut and took off like a rocket.  Didn’t yell anything till he was across the fence. “Oniki” was all he yelled as his “jackrabbit” head bobbed out of sight.

Kris and I took off at the same time, nose to nose till the fence, “The sack!” Kris yelled. “I dropped the sack.”

As I cleared the fence Kris stopped and headed straight back for that sack of apples. He snagged the bag in his left arm just as Mr. Oniki pulled that shotgun from the rack.

“Run, Kris, run!” I screamed. “He’s going to shoot!”

Kris tossed the bag over just before he jumped the fence.  “Made it” and he laughed as he landed.

He grabbed his butt as I heard the shotgun. “Damn,” Kris giggled. “He shot me.”

We made it home, me carrying the apples, Kris carrying eleven chunks of rock salt in his “buttocks.”

It was one of those times Grandpa laughed at our stupidity and Grandma fretted over trying to patch Kris’s jeans. I’m not sure, but I’m pretty positive that dark haired girl from Ogden, Utah  might have helped with the horse salve on Kris’s injury.

 Yup, there I was enjoying a green apple with salt, when I said to myself “Self” I said (cause that’s what I call myself when I’m talking to myself), “Dark haired women will do it every time.”

Thank you for your time.
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