Saturday, November 29, 2008
"One of the virtues of being very young is that you don't let the facts get in the way of your imagination."
In our younger days my brother and I treated the back of Mater's car as a slide in a playground. On sunny days we would climb atop the car from the front, crawl across the roof and skim down the sloped posterior to start the fun all over again. Strictly speaking, it was forbidden- but Mater's eye was typically elsewhere and we never came to any harm.
One day long after my sibling left that childhood activity behind, I decided to venture onto the makeshift slide for a few entertaining solitary rounds.
As I propelled myself off the roof and began my happy descent, I became aware of a commotion behind me. There was a hollow thump as though an elephant had broken loose from a nearby field and had stamped his mighty foot in a fury; then, as though the same fellow had ruptured one thousand balloons out of spite, there volleyed forth a cluster of tiny, pinpoint bursts of noise alternated with claps of thunder.
My own feet hit the ground and I turned, curious, only to find myself wondering where the car's back window had disappeared to. It was not in its usual place tucked inside the window frame- and I ought to know as I had moments earlier skidded over its slick surface.
All about my feet were tragic remnants. The ground was coated with diamond slivers once part of that most essential of vehicle components: one that I had to replace with my own pocket money, and one that I never again considered a toy.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 1:32 PM