The Secret of Youth Is Ignorance
We did some downright foolish
things when I was a kid—not just silly, but truly dangerous. I’ve already told
the story about Ardell, Jethro, and the dynamite, but that was only one chapter
in a long book of questionable decisions.
Take, for example, one of my high
school classmates who learned the hard way that you don’t rest the muzzle of a
loaded shotgun on the toe of your shoe and pull the trigger. It’s hard to walk
with swagger when you’re missing your big toe.
One of our earliest stunts
involved the rain-swollen drainage ditch that ran from Cahaba Hills and cut a
path across Greenbriar Acres. After a couple days of heavy rain, that ditch
turned into a frothing, muddy river. At fourteen or fifteen, that was an irresistible
playground. We’d jump in right where it emerged from under Greenwood Lane,
letting the current sweep us across the field toward Brierwood Lane.
Here’s where the stupidity came
in: the ditch disappeared back under the road through a narrow pipe—small
enough that if you got sucked into it, you weren’t coming back out alive. The
only way to stay safe was to climb out before the road. But being the tough
guys we thought we were, we dared each other to see who could stay in the
current the longest. The bravest—or dumbest—was the one who got closest to the
culvert before scrambling out. Looking back, it’s a miracle our names aren’t
carved on headstones.
One of my proudest acts of idiocy
took place my senior year at Leeds High School. If you’ve ever been to the
stadium, you know the light poles on either side are enormous, with the home
side poles standing well behind the bleachers. Those poles require a bucket
truck for maintenance, but Mickey and I figured we could use them for something
far more important—hanging a giant “Class of ’73” banner.
Our plan was simple and stupid:
climb the stadium steps to the top row, leap from the railing to the light
pole, scale nearly to the top, tie off one end of the banner cord, then jump
back to the bleachers and repeat the process on the other pole. And that’s
exactly what we did. We stood back and admired our work, sure we’d be legends
the next day.
By noon, the wind had ripped the
banner loose on one side. It hung like a wounded flag, flapping wildly until
nightfall. Then came the Friday night football game. The stadium lights kicked
on, the heat poured out, and our masterpiece went up in smoke—literally. By
kickoff, there wasn’t so much as a thread left.
We also found ways to risk life
and limb on the school bus. Back then, buses had to stop at railroad crossings
so a “runner” could hop off, check for trains, and wave the all-clear. Our
driver, Mr. Timmons, was one of those rare grown-ups who didn’t mind bending
the rules. A few of us turned it into a contest—jumping off the bus while it
was still moving, sprinting across the tracks, and waving the driver on. Each
day, the bus slowed less and less, until the challenge became who could leap
off at the highest speed without face-planting.
I made several clean runs, but I
think it was Eddie Gosnell who set the record. Eventually, even Mr. Timmons
decided enough was enough—probably worried that one of us would break a leg and
he’d be out of a job. We moved on to other amusements, which I’ll get to later.
Looking back now, I can’t decide
whether we were fearless or just too ignorant to know fear. Maybe that’s the
real secret of youth—thinking you’re invincible, right up until the moment
you’re not. And maybe the secret to getting older is realizing how many times
you got lucky.
