Every kid probably has mysteries or folklore or stories that other kids who shared schools and neighborhoods have as well – or at least some version of. I grew up in a fantastic neighborhood on the east side of Bloomington, Indiana in the 70s. In fact, my house was one of the first to be built in Park Ridge East. I remember going daily with my parents and baby brother R (J wasn’t even a glimmer yet) and watching it grow – a three bedroom ranch-style house, HUGE compared to the little starter home we were moving from. It stood alone in a barren field, cleared of any such annoyances such as trees or flowers or critters. I didn’t understand the sadness of such things at the tender age of four. My parents took great blackmail photos of me… uhhhhh… “baptizing” the foundation.
As soon as the roof went on the house, BLAM! It was struck by lightning! Literally! Struck! I was terrified by this and didn’t want to move in until my dad told me (true or untrue, I believed him) that lightening never strikes even near the same place twice. Then I just became obsessed with the patch in the ceiling where it struck. I showed all my friends. It was right outside my bedroom door, near the linen closet, up by the light. I even showed a later owner of the house when I went back to visit. He was duly impressed. I didn’t mention my personal addition to his foundation.
There were a ton of kids in the neighborhood, many of whom lived right on my street. It was a happy street and I lived on a cul-de-sac, so for those younger years, we pretty much stayed on our little street. Well, we didn’t want to venture much past Beacon Court anyway because of, well, you know… The Witch lady. Someday I’ll tell you all about her. But she lived on the corner. I’d say she was dead by now, but I’m really not sure. She had two brutal, evil, ugly, mean dogs. If you stepped on even a blade of her grass, she’d toss you in the basement with those dogs. REALLY! She would! My friend, L (you remember L, of the S-E-X revelation, right?) – she told me it happened to a friend of hers, so it MUST have been true! Anyway, The Witch Lady is an entire blog unto her (or ITS) self. **shiver**
And then of course, there were the hours spent searching in my backyard for the tunnels I was told by KB that were dug there by Civil War soldiers. Oh yes! TUNNELS! Right in my very own back yard. We had a hill there and they were supposed to be right there in the hill. I spent hours, days, possibly years, looking for those fucking tunnels. I hate KB.
When we got a little older, we started to venture forth, carefully avoiding The Witch Lady’s grass. I spent many hours exploring the woods in back of Park Ridge East. You had to slip, slide, and sneak behind a house to get there. But once there, it was like a secret paradise. This is where my friend G and I found the, you know, DINO tooth in the creek. The little creek wound its way through the woods and if you wandered far enough, there was a little field of daisies. Thus, my obsession with daisies (cat’s name, tattoo, etc…). I spent hours reading in that field and sulking in those woods. Ahhhh, memories!
A few years later, the kids were all old enough, and the world was still innocent enough, to ride our bikes around the neighborhood from dawn until dusk. Sure, we sometimes went beyond our boundaries, but that was our job. And there was a great bike trail that started across the busy road that we were NOT allowed to cross in the neighboring Park Ridge. It was awesome! And it led to other mysterious neighborhoods and stores and the like. And it was made up of all hills! FUN!
And then there was the Park. Which the kids all assumed the neighborhood was named for. Hello! PARK Ridge East. I mean, the place was as flat as a pancake, so RIDGE? Ummmm, noooooo. So, it was all about the park. Funny thing is, the park was tiny. By today’s standards, it was not only tiny, but incredibly dangerous. There was a tire swing that had three chains connected at the top with no spinney thing. My friend M and I were spinning the tire and my hands were at the top of the chains. Oh the mangling!!!! Youch! But I was a touch 70s kid. If I even bothered to tell my parents, it’s not like the SUED or anything! It was years until that thing got hauled away and replaced with some dumb, boring plastic, very safe, playground apparatus. Zzzzzzzz. I, of course, never sat on that tire swing again. But, I digress. The playground rocked.
There was a slide that ended in a pit of sand that would suck you to the depths of hell. I shit you not. The depths I tell ya! My friend I (who I will totally tag, so she can vouch for this one) and I got stuck and thought we were gonna DIE one day in the pit of sand. I can’t remember who got stuck first. But the other one gallantly went in to save her bestie and got stuck too. We stood there and screamed for what seemed like hours. People walked by and laughed at us, which infuriated both of us (human right activists at a young age). The more we squirmed, the stucker we got. Finally, the people who lived across the street heard us wailing and came and sucked us out of the mud. Our shoes were left behind. They were very sweet. I remember being wrapped in a blanket in their warm house as they called our embarrassed parents to come get us. They didn’t really believe our story. But I swear to this day, we did not make that shit up. We were stuck!
And then, of course, the best part of the park… the secret known to but a few, and yet… the entire neighborhood… the four story tree-house. This thing was death waiting for us all. It was a case of tetanus, a case of gangrene, a lost limb, head, life, whatever. It was adventure! It was… completely ridiculous!!! I have no idea when it was built, or by whom. But the thing was rickety, at best. The first floor was okay. Pretty sturdy. You could reach it by stepping on little 2x4 “steps” that had been nailed into the large tree. I spent lots of time on the first floor. The second… “floor” was a moldy piece of pressboard. And you got to it by climbing the branches. No easy steps to this one. You had to be brave. I got there. A couple of times. The third floor was a board of some sort. It was up damn high. I looked at it. I think I climbed up to it. But I didn’t step on it. The fourth floor was actually a floor. I mean, it looked fun… up there in the tree top. It looked dangerous and the kind of thing that only a really stupid boy would try to get to. And they did. And they gloated. I admit, I never tried. I was brave enough. I just wasn’t stupid enough.
There were broken arms from that tree, but I don’t think ANY kid EVER admitted it was from THAT tree. If they fell and broke something, their buddies would haul their ass to another location quickly, and a story would be made up by the time an adult arrived. Agreed upon and never spoken of again. Truth. And I will never disclose the location of that tree. I can’t imagine that tree house still exists. I’d like to think it does. *sly grin*
Wonder how many of you out there are from Park Ridge East. Do you have the same memories? Any that I'm missing? Do share! :)
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