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Jeff Curtis ('69) - Alumni Sandstorm ~ 04/17/05 
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>>From: Jeff Curtis ('69)

II. The Road Most Traveled
There were several standard routes to my elementary school; options
influenced on a day-to-day basis by various factors. This included where the
friends you were picking up along the way lived, and in the fall, for
instance, if there were giant piles of sycamore leaves to wade through in
the yards along Birch Street. Or in the spring, if the bings were ripe on
the trees at the far end of Tinkle. But the preferred path, and the road
most often traveled, was across the field in back of Westgate shopping
center. We called it the "dirt road" Mom always told us not to go that way
as there was an old abandoned irrigation canal cutting through it at one
time, and in its day, contained nasty looking ponds of brackish slime-water
that seemed to lay still, patiently waiting for a small child to slip in and
create a tragic headline in the next day's Herald.
She needn't have worried. I am not aware of a single newsworthy tragedy to
have been the result of its existence. Besides, we were all convinced at the
time that those stagnant pools of algae and pond-scum were the breeding
grounds for the horrific virus that caused the dreaded crippler of innocent
children (just like me). We referred to any such backwashes as containing
"polio water", and we wouldn't get within a hundred feet of them even if
offered a quarter. Let me tell you, a quarter could buy you a whole Hostess
cherry pie and a curvy bottle of Orange Crush, satisfying two of the FDA's
recommended daily servings of the fruit group. However, the ditch was
covered up eventually, then paved over, becoming an extension to Alder
Street connecting it to Van Geisen. Mom wasn't aware that it no longer
existed, however, and thus the dire warning each and every time she had an
inkling that we might be headed in that direction. My brothers and I found
that it was usually better to affably agree than to argue the point, and
then do whatever we had in mind in the first place. I mean really, that
approach always seemed to work for Eddie Haskell. Most episodes anyway.
So merrily we cut behind Westgate's cinder block backside kicking up dust
bombs, tapping stink beetles on the carapace (to see them elevate their
backsides and spray bug-musk like an itty-bitty skunk), and picking up goat
heads in the soles of our Keds.  I didn't often ride my bike this way as I
would likely end up walking beside the big Schwinn, with a flat tire. Or
maybe two. I was on the spy for a couple of empty beer cans. Pop was in
bottles but beer was in steel cans, and no pop-tops, that you could stomp
real hard with your sneakers causing the top and the bottom of the can to
crimp in at the edges, gripping your feet and forming the click-clacking
wonder of "horseshoes" as you clomped joyfully, if somewhat awkwardly, down
the sidewalk. Alas, on this day it was not to be. Apparently the high school
kids were doing their recreational drinking out in the desert and not hiding
out behind Westgate these days.
But I found an old pop bottle cap in the dirt and expertly gripping it
between thumb and middle finger, held it up near my ear and "snap" (sound of
me snapping my fingers) the bottle cap sailed like a tiny Frisbee and
bounced off the back of my brother's head.
"Hey!"
"Shut up."
"That hurt."
"Shut up."
"             ."
"Shut up."
"I didn't even say anything!"
"Sh-u-u-u-u-u-u-t   u-u-u-u-u-u-u-p! "
Intelligent conversation is one of the benefits of the non-peer sibling
relationship.
At any rate, we found the dirt road a little touch of wilderness breaking up
the monotony of the otherwise overly-civilized, paved and curbed journey to
the day's lessons, thus was considered precious and held with great
fondness.
I emerged at the Conoco station on the corner of Wright and Van Giesen none
the worse for wear, neither drowned nor crippled and with the satisfaction
of having caused my brother some small degree of discomfort.  While waiting
for the patrol boy to extend his red "STOP" banner at the crosswalk,
insuring that no errant motorists would be flattening any little pedestrians
in the intersection, I, for the thousandth time in the last few days,
thought about the end of the school year, now only a few days away, and a
summer of unending frivolity to follow. There was something about the late
spring that always managed to lift my spirits. Longer hours of daylight, the
return of warm weather and, ultimately, the cessation of classroom
obligations, were all contributing factors in my seasonally upbeat attitude.
And that last one was a biggie. It accounted for much joy and optimism
amongst all of those in my immediate social circle. Yep - just a few more
days and I could say goodbye to the fifth grade forever. Life was certainly
good. The fact that sixth grade was just over the horizon had no dampening
effect at all. When you are ten years old, three months or so is nearly
forever, and any pending responsibilities residing that far in the future
could easily be relegated to the back, back burner and dutifully ignored.
The crossing guard stepped out into the crosswalk, unfurled his traffic
control flag and indicated that it was now safe for what had, in the
interim, become a small congregation of youthful commuters, to proceed
across the street. However, he cast a scornful eye on us all, wordlessly
indicating that we would be "reported" if we ran, pushed, shoved or caused
any commotion whatsoever during the traverse. There was plenty of time for
commotion and behaving myself while crossing the street was within the
bounds of even my limited self-control.
From where we now stood, it was a straight shot east to Jason Lee Elementary
School. With morning traffic whizzing by, we proceeded up the sidewalk on
the last leg of our trip. I fell in behind my brother and, with perfect
timing, stepped on the back of his right sneaker, collapsing it beneath his
heel in mid-step. It was a perfectly executed flat tire.
"Hey! Stop it!"
"Shut up."
"That hurt."
"Shut up."
"             ."
"Shut up."
"I didn't even say anything!"
"Sh-u-u-u-u-u-u-t   u-u-u-u-u-u-u-p! "

To be continued...

Jeff Curtis ('69)
Seattle, WA
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