Let's Vote On It!

We were a team. And it worked like this: We did everything together. If one of us had an idea, we voted, us three boys. If it was a matter of who should try it first, we voted.

So if we were in a tree and the power line to the garage ran through the branches, we would vote on whether or not to touch it. Then we would vote on who would touch it first.

I’m the eldest, most cautious of the trio. Mike, a year younger, was the most agile and adventurous. David, the youngest, was the follower.

Usually Mike had the idea, and I often opposed it. David was the tie breaker. So I was the first to get the shock. I was the first to fly through the air on some rope we had tied to a cliff-clutching tree. I was the first to light the cannon made of cans and gasoline.

I was six and my dad was on his motorcycle climbing the hills by the lake with his friends.

It was 1962 and motorcycles weren’t designed for off road yet. The men would race toward the hill and see how far they could go. Some of them dumped the bike part way up and then slid back down. There was a growing group of men tinkering on the repairs off to one side. The grass was turning to brown streaks up the side of the hill, creating a triangular path that ended in a point about fifty feet from the top.

When the noise of the motorcycles died down and was replaced replaced with the loud talk of young men drinking beers and eating sandwiches Mike had an idea.

“Hey, let’s take this old tire and push it up the hill!”

A quick vote, a unanimous tally.

So a first grader, a kindergartner, and a preschooler were soon pushing and shoving the old tire up the dirt while laughing men watched by the road. It wasn’t a quick task, but once our trio decided to do something we could stick to it. This job took us almost a half hour.

We were in the grass way up the hill. None of the motorcycle tracks had reached this far. Below us were various cars and pickups from the forties and fifties lined up haphazardly along the paved road. A few motorcycles were scattered here and there, one or two of them surrounded by men making repairs.

That didn’t hold our attention. It was time to roll the tire!

“Wait, I’ve got an idea,” Mike said. “Somebody could ride in it!”

“I dunno,” I said cautiously. I knew I would get in trouble if one of us got hurt. (“You’re the oldest. You should be watching out for your brothers,” Mom would say.)

“Let’s vote! Should somebody roll down the hill?”

Two hands go up.

“OK, who should go? I think Will should go since he’s the oldest.”

Two hands go up.

I look at the tire. I look at the slope. I look at my dad, a distant figure that I know is going to be unhappy with me. I look at the tire. Mike is holding it up, sideways to the slope so it won’t start rolling too soon. I look back at the slope.

“Get in! It’ll be fun!”

I reluctantly squeeze in, my butt sliding into place, the edges gripping my waist.

Mike is full of advice.

“Hey David! Help me hold it! Now put your feet up higher Will so you fit tighter. Remember to keep your hands in!”

He seems to be rushing this a little.

“Ready?”

Before I can answer he turns the tire and it begins to roll.

My head goes up and over my feet. The dry grass is framed by my brothers’ feet. My head goes down, my brothers are grinning, upside down, their heads against the blue sky. My head goes up, I’m looking at the dirt. My head goes down, I see sky. My head goes up: brown, my head goes down: blue. Up/brown, down/blue. Brown, blue, brown, blue, brown. . . it all smears together, like the finger paintings I did in kindergarten.

Vaguely I hear some shouting.

The spinning is all there is. Around and around and around and around until even that is just a smeared sensation of movement. Suddenly I don’t feel the ground at all. I’ve hit the ditch at the road’s edge and I'm air borne.

Though I’m scared, I do think this is a little cool. I’m FLYING!

WHAM! I hit the ground again, I’ve cleared the road!

The tire wobbles and falls over. I sit up and rub my elbow while I wait for everything to stop spinning.

But before they do I feel hands grip my upper arms and I’m lifted into the air. I’m turned around and I’m looking into my dad’s face. Various emotions are playing across it: fear, relief, anger, amusement, a touch of pride. Over his shoulder I can see my brothers coming down the hill.

I’m carried to the car, sideways like a sack of flour, and the rest of the afternoon I watch my dad and his friends attempting to climb that hill from my personal jail house while Mike and David go off to catch lizards.