I've spent most of last week building a shed with my dad out here at the HM Ranch. Last spring he came out here for a week or two and built a fence, planted some trees, and laid a foundation for a shed. He dug some deep holes for the posts and had several cross beams put in between each post. this week we've built the floor with other beams and put some thick plywood on. The shed comes ready to put together and it delivered on Friday. It's been hot, with blazing 101 degree temperatures and lots of humidity. I've felt like trash each day, but sitting still didn't make me feel any better, so I went out and sweated like a madman, hoping against hope that it would somehow "burn through" my fever/sore throat/whatever...
I made the remark on my twitter account (you should really check that new social networking thing out -- it's cute, fun, and quick, especially with a mobile device) that: "Working out here on this shed with my dad is cool -- just like a Chevy commercial ... without the mountains."
It's true. There's something relaxing and cool about working on a project with someone. Family members that love each other are the best!
So, I was thinking the other day about something my dad mentioned a long time ago. He shared with me after my high school graduation, when we'd all moved away from California to Florida, how he had wanted to build / rebuild a '65 Mustang with me in my teen years. It would have been a cool bonding father-and-son project. But he realized it would not be a good idea due to the type of friends I chose.
I chose the type of friends that were in abundance in SoCal back in those days: pot smoking buddies. At first I was a young freshman student and scared of drugs. I wanted to fit in, but was too wary of drugs at the time. After about a year I gave in and realized how much commradery I had after I crossed the threshold from a "straight" or potentially "narc" kind of kid to "party-er." Once I got used to smoking pot and knew the lingo and how to load and smoke a bowl in a pipe or bong, it was almost like getting street cred with my peers. What blew me away and excited me a great deal in my junior and senior years was seeing how I could blend in anywhere when travelling due to the common interest of weed. It was very much a community. If you partied, you were cool. If you did not, well, you might not be cool. I found different types of people in the different places I visited. In SoCal, there weren't as many cliques. It seemed that the majority of us partied and we freely moved from groups that were not segregated -- like scholar, athlete, skater, music-head, etc. Other parts of the country had "preppies" and "stoners" and the two never spent much time together.
All that to say, my dad was probably dead-on right about his decision. (Thanks, dad, for not supplying me with a car when I was in high school!) I did have occasional use of the family car once I had my license, but if I would have owned my own car, I bet I would have taken risks and gotten in trouble.
I'll never forget a game my friend Pat Z and I used to play. We'd stop our cars at an interesection that has a narrow concrete path across the street that would drain small amounts of water with its gentle slope. We'd stop with our back wheels in the water, gun our engines in neutral and then slam it into drive. We'd spin our wheels and take off in a skid. One time both of us were doing that and a citizen (a rather concerned and "Type A" one at that) came walking towards my car in the middle of one of these spin-outs, yelling at me as I smiled and tore off. I have to admit, I still kinda side with me and my friend on that one -- even though I'm probably the same age now (or even older, gasp!) as that Doug Nedermeyer type parent/adult guy.
I'm grateful for my dad's wisdom in watching out for me. He was a teenage boy and he had his own wild times as a youth. The drug for that generation was alcohol and ours were a combination of alcohol and weed. I did choose to hang with a "wild" crowd, I guess you could say, and my tendencies and attitudes in those days probably would have gotten me in trouble. Thank the Lord that my friends and I survived those years. Many students experience the loss of someone they know during their teenage years, and we were lucky. There were a few guys that died during my four years in high school. One drowned on a senior skip day at some SoCal beach. Another died in a trial run on a friend's "crotch-rocket" motorcycle. This guy was an alumni when it happened. He lost control coming around a giant "U" of a street, went up a curb, scooped up trashcans in his way and hit a large tree head on. It probably killed him instantly, crushing his body. I heard the helmet flew off and rolled down the street. My friend Pat Z's mom drove back home to see paramedics administering CPR to someone with a Desert High letterman's jacket on and a crumpled motorcycle. Poor lady. For a few seconds, she thought it was her son. Later that night some of the friends of that guy chopped that tree down in a drunken fit of venting their intense emotions.
I apologize for going down some gruesome bunny trails in my blog today. It's hard not to share a story when they come to mind so vividly all these years later.
Posted by Doug Van Pelt at August 11, 2008 10:49 AM