I’m taken back to a day in 1984. It was a warm, sunny summer day and my sister Dara (Slinky sis) and I were visiting grandma and grandpa in Ohio. My grandpa was still recovering from open heart surgery two months earlier and my grandmother didn’t think it would be too much bother if just Dara and I came since we were the two oldest grandkids (I was 12 at the time and sis was 9). Boy, she must have had the beginnings of senility and forgotten what little hellions we really were. Seriously, in years past, we single-handedly were responsible for giving all of her highly valuable Madame Alexander collection dolls buzz cuts (not to mention mini skirts); we played bartender with the neighborhood kids (seriously) in the basement’s tricked-out bar (hey, we charged them – we weren’t stupid); and put a car-long gouge in the side of grandpa’s shiny new Cadillac (just to name a few). I guess grandparents can turn a blind eye to those sort of things (either that or the memories are just so horrid, they’ve blocked them out).
Anyhow, after dinner that evening, grandpa asked if Dara and I would like to accompany him on his nightly walk. After all, the doctors had told him he should keep exercising as part of his recovery. Since sis and I were too lazy to walk, we decided to take grandma’s adult tricycle and ride along next to him. I’m sure you’ve seen them before: they are just oversized tricycles and they have a huge basket in the back (that is most likely meant for groceries and packages of the like – but we always piled other kids in there). Now, Dara and I were totally enamored with this ludicrous monstrosity and we always fought (loving sibs, we were not) who would get to drive and who would be the passenger. I argued that since I was bigger, I should drive; especially since their quiet, serene (at least when we weren’t visiting), upper-crust neighborhood was extremely hilly and valleyish and there were no sidewalks. Lo and behold though, it never failed, Dara’s cries and death threats (I don’t know where she learned to be such a drama queen) would always win her the driver’s spot for at least part of the ride.
During the walk, grandpa was chugging along at a pretty good clip, and we were keeping up right next to him and sometimes even ahead. Every so often, sis and I would stop to change drivers and grandpa would keep power walking. At one point, when Dara and I went to switch to me riding in the back basket, we were stopped at the top of a hill. As I got in, I had a bit of trepidation because sis was not a very good driver and this was quite a steep hill. I begged her to let me just drive it down the hill and she ratted down to grandpa (who was almost halfway down at this point) and he yelled that if we didn’t take turns civilly then he was going to lock the damn bike up for good. Now, we couldn’t have that! Especially since we’d already butchered the dolls and dried up the bar (what would we have left?). So I hop in the basket, and sis starts going down the hill. Of course, we start gradually, but rather quickly the trike picked up some serious speed (I’m sure the 100+ pounds in the basket helped it along). Naturally, this sounds like it is going to end really badly (and it does), but I sucked at split decisions (and still do). Seriously, I would have bailed, but that trike was a truckin’ and there was concrete on either side of me, so I figured I’d ride it out. Bad choice, not for me – but for poor, frail grandpa. At the last minute for whatever reason ( probably residual brain damage from the slinky incident), before narrowly missing grandpa, Dara decided to turn the handlebars ever-so-slightly to the left (maybe it was my shrill scream), which, in turn caused her to plow right into AND over unsuspecting grandpa.
There was an incredulous moment of WTF-filled silence as the trike finally came to rest at the foot of the hill. We looked back at grandpa all splayed out in the street like some oversized road kill and instead of running immediately to his aid, we played the blame game. We bickered back and forth about whose fault it was and who was going to go to jail for killing grandpa. I pretty much decided, even though I wasn’t the driver, that because I was the oldest that it would probably be me going to the big house or at least juvey (being the oldest sucked for that very reason – I should always have known better).
In the middle of our favorite game, I saw a twinge of movement from grandpa – he wasn’t dead! There was still hope! I ran over to help but I was quite taken aback when I heard my grandpa utter some choice words that I was used to, but had never heard him say (maybe that’s where I get it?). I helped grandpa into the bike basket and rode him home. Grandma immediately drove him to the emergency room, where aside from some broken glasses, skyrocketing blood pressure, a three-inch gaping head wound (nothing 10 stitches couldn’t fix) , and a broken rib, grandpa was totally fine. Not so shocking though, the doctors wanted to keep grandpa overnight for observation (and probably peace and quiet). That, in the meantime, gave grandma time to get us back to our rightful owners.
Over the ensuing years, the incident was never spoken of again. It was forgotten just as all of the other wayward crimes we had committed. I hope that someday I can find a way to forgive and forget all the shit that is bound to come back at me (karma’s a bitch). One thing is for damn sure though; if I ever take a walk with my grandkids, they’re going to be in front of me where I can see them at all times…
