The History Of Me

Rock-n-Roll

As a child in the early eighties, a few years before Nintendo would release a beautiful magic box that would render all my other recreational activities obsolete, I was in constant search of new and exciting ways to spend my days. Due to this, I thoroughly enjoyed the freedoms of living in a small town during my preteen years. My father alotted me free reign of the town during the day, so long as I stayed out of trouble and was home for lunch. I covered every inch of land within a five mile radius of my home. My brothers and I discovered spectacular abandoned houses, piles of dumped treasure consisting of broken TVs to smash, appliances to take apart, and the elusive Playboy magazine, and uncharted trails that led deep into the outskirts of town.

One of our favorite places to play, however, was a magical anomoly of stones that we, as kids, called “The Rocks.”  The Rocks was, unbeknownst to me at the time, a small plot of land that was owned by a local business owner who sold numerous types of agregrate. The agregrate was simply dumped into separate piles of river rock, sand, pea gravel, And a slew of other types of landscaping material.  Most piles were roughly ten feet tall and maybe thirty feet in diameter, probably a dump truck full.  The river rock pile was usually about three or four loads next to each other.  Of course, for a young kid, these piles seemed massive, and we, not aware that our parents had acquired permission for us to be there, would play on the rock piles for hours on end.  There was a decorative gong near the property that served as a perfect target to test our throwing accuraccy, and a nearby greenhouse that, naturally, was left unlocked, allowing us to explore beautiful flora, and, occasionally, snatch up a plant to play with and ultimately destroy. For the most part, though, we were pretty behaved, but, as we all know, rocks and stones are the most basic of weapons and tools, and, in the hands of kids, can be the basis of many negative experiences.

An example of a not so bad incident would be if a kid, hypethetically, found a dead cat near said rockpile, and, hypethetically decided to find a large scale rock, and, maybe, hypethetically took said rock and smashed said cats head. This, of course, would hypethetically cause said cats eyes to pop out of said cats said head and cause said kid to become extremely grossed out and quickly run from said area.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Others were not so harmless. Occasionally a child will do something that, for some reason, seems like an amazing newly discovered feat, and has to be done repeatedly to take in the complete awesomeness that it is. Our personal discovery came when throwing a rock at the back of a garage that shared the same line as the property’s fence. To our amazement, the rock simply passed through the wall, leaving a small hole.  Now, as an adult, I fully understand that the owner of the garage, trying to conserve money while adding walls to his carport, enclosed the structure with rigid foam that is often used as an insulation in buildings, instead of more expensive wood. As a kid, however, we were just amazed that the rock simply passed through the wall, leaving a small hole.  Adding to the situation, the fact that we had a near endless supply of stones, the “wall” didn’t stand a chance.

We pummelled it for multiple minutes, rejoicing each and every time a rock slipped through, not once giving a single thought as to where our projectiles were going on the other side. For all we knew, or cared, there was an alternate universe on the flipside, and we couldn’t be less concerned. Of course, there wasn’t another plane of existence on the other side, as you, Reader, already know, but cars. Classic cars to be more specific. Three restored 1940-ish automobiles that the owner had taken great pride in building up, never thinking that they would be beat to shit by a few ignorant kids who are easily amused.

Somehow we finished the attack without being discovered. It wasn’t until hours later when our dad approached us and began questioning us about what had happened that we finally realized that we had done something wrong. After what seemed like hours long interogating by my father, we miraculously convinced him of our innocence, and the subject was laid to rest at our household. In fact, it’s one of the few things that, even as an adult, I have yet to confess to him.

The Rocks are gone now.  Houses were built on the land a few years ago, destroying all traces of our once grand playground.  Paradise was paved and replaced with two-bedroom homes with attached garages, leaving only memories of the young children who frequently frolicked on it’s soil, but, thanks to this residential expansion, I think we can all agree that the world is a safer place.