The first time I can recall being really scared was in the autumn of 1969. To some, that’s a long time ago. And I guess that’s true, but only if you look at in terms of the years that have passed by.
For me, I remember it like it was yesterday.
As a bit of background, I was busy growing up in a small town in northern Minnesota. By all respects, there was little more to the community than a couple of stoplights–there was nothing much to see and there was even less to do.
But to a little boy looking for adventure, it was one of the most marvelous times of my life.
As was tradition on those magical autumn nights, my boyhood friends and I made it a practice of hanging out in the vacant fields behind a motor court just south of old Highway 71.
And even though it was a trek, it was well worth the effort.
Together, we sought sanctuary in the tall, cool grass–and this was the one place where we were free to be ourselves. Night after endless autumn night, it was here that we talked tough and made big plans.
And as night fell, I distinctly remember that we always stayed in that field about 10 minutes longer than was humanly prudent (I think night came on a lot more quickly in those days).
With our bravado still lingering in the night air, we each scattered in different directions in order to make our way home quickly. To walk together would be extremely unwise since time was of the essence and to be egregiously late was to risk swift and certain retribution at the hands of angry fathers.
And even though my head told me to stick with the pack and take the beating, it was always the protection of my southern hemisphere that dictated the action.
Waving to my friends, I made my way through the chest high grass…I can–still to this day–feel the creepiness of the whole thing. I can also remember in vivid detail the sweet relief of finally stepping out of that field into the vacant lot on the south end of the Motor Court just a few blocks from my home.
But the worst was still in front of me.
Like something out of Washington Irving’s Legend of Sleepy Hollow, I was, at that instant, a modern-day Ichabod Crane who had the unfortunate task of crossing the covered bridge–and in this case it was the church yard of the newly-erected Christian Missionary Alliance Chapel.
Making my way through the church yard, I tried to man-up every time. In fact, I always made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t run the rest of the way home–I’d be cool and walk the entire route. But I did run…night after night after night.
Isn’t it funny the things you remember when you’re nine.
Leave a note.