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Same place, different time
Do you remember early snowfall when you were a kid?
I vividly recall that in November each year we would have flurries several times, and then, all at once, usually overnight, it would dump about six to 10 inches of cold white snow upon on us. Even so, we still made it to school then. My mother says that when she went to school at Fort Hill, she had to walk to and from in hip-deep snow, and uphill both ways.
I guess there were fewer lawyers around in the ’40s. Nowadays if a kid slips and falls, its somebody’s fault for not cancelling classes.
I was about 8 when I got a pair of wooden skis for Christmas, and immediately went into the woods behind our house, and up to the top of the hill. Don’t panic when I tell you that I had no idea how to steer myself between the trees, but I managed to schuss my way to the bottom many times. We had fun in the snow, with snowball fights. Usually, our battle areas were up the road near Gary’s house. We also rode sleds and saucers down Mr. Clopper’s hill. It was steeper than behind my house, but there were no trees to plow into. Sometimes I wonder how we did survive childhood as I listen to all the “cautions” that are now stacked in the way of fun.
Kids today would rather stay inside and play video games. No wonder they’re overweight — they don’t get outside to run or sled down a hill. In the summer months, we played ball whenever we had enough for two teams. It wasn’t always baseball; we played tackle football without protective pads or helmets covering our hard heads. Yes, there were bumps, bruises and the occasional tooth that got knocked out. We went ice skating soon as one of us could walk out on the pond without going through the ice. Perhaps we were fortunate to have survived childhood, but at least we lived it.
We had a jitney with soap box derby wheels. That was fun! Gary and I had no sooner put the wheels on our flat, two-man racer steered with feet, and off we went down Weires Avenue — Gary driving, me on the back holding on for dear life. About halfway down the street, we saw a truck coming our way. Oh, I forgot to mention that we failed to put brakes on it. The truck was delivering up the same hill that we were descending. He didn’t slow or stop, and we couldn’t. Disaster was imminent. At the last moment, Gary steered hard left into our driveway at the bottom of the hill. The truck flew on by, and we T-boned a big brown rock. Our jitney stopped on a dime. The rear end went airborne, and I was catapulted over Gary and at least 10 feet beyond the crash site. Wow! We were going do it all again, but the racer had been broken beyond our ability to fix. Skiing was actually safer, now that I look back.
I truly don’t know how or why we survived childhood, but damn it was fun. I would do it all again in a heartbeat, but my wife Cheryl couldn’t bear to hear me moan and groan any more than I already do.
Joe Dorsey, a resident of Short Gap, W.Va., is a retired employee of the U.S. Postal Service. He writes occasional columns for the Times-News.
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Goodbye, old friend; we’ll miss you
For a change, the usual good-natured (we believe) cuts on one another and the dogging of each other weren’t the story of the day Saturday at the 7th Joe Divico Coaches Brunch at the Cumberland Holiday Inn, although DeMatha’s Mike Jones once again came away as the Outstanding Player in this department (this guy needs to go on tour, he really does). And whatever good-natured (we believe) cuts there were, none of them were directed toward the man who was sitting in the next-to-last chair on the left side of the dais. For on Saturday, the ACIT coaches, fans, and Wamba Caravan 89 came not to good-naturedly bury Jim Yerkovich, but to wholeheartedly and sincerely praise him.
And to say thank you. And goodbye. -
Let’s remember Nullie and Moggie, as well
The only problem I have with Women’s History Month (which is this month) or any other such month is that we tend to focus on the accomplishments of people most folks already know about.
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Hunting’s parallel universes
The Maryland General Assembly gathers every year to make new laws.
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A new day has begun
Joe Gallagher, the lovable Irishman (yes, that is redundant) from St. John’s of Washington, D.C. didn’t mind being interrupted at the buffet line when the person greeting him said, “Coach, don’t know that I’ve seen you since the ’85 championship game.”
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A beautiful friendship, indeed
In many ways what the Alhambra Catholic Invitational Tournament stands for and has become embodies a lot of the same characteristics and qualities that define what Jim Yerkovich stands for and is.
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50 years can go pretty fast
What’s your favorite memory of the Alhambra Catholic Invitational Tournament?
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Terps can only lament what could’ve been
There they were, dressed in their virgin-white uniforms instead of those ugly gold and red ones, the uniforms they had worn through most of the second half of the season as well as through their soon-to-be kapoot seven-game winning streak.
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This time a shrug and chuckle required
Go to enough high school basketball games, especially in our neck of the woods, and you just might end up seeing everything.
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Caution: numbers ahead!
I know it can get a little crazy when we start throwing around deer harvest numbers.
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Inspired foolishness was never done better
Apparently I hit a nerve with my Jungle Song column last time.
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Goodbye, old friend; we’ll miss you
