I was born the youngest of four children (2 brothers, 1 sister). Ryan, Ross, and Ashley. Growing up we were all pretty close. We lived on a creek that was dry most of the time unless the lake got full enough to open the flood gates. Most of my childhood was spent playing in that creek. There were a few other kids that lived around us and sometimes they would join us on our adventures in the creek. Our favorite game was cowboys and Indians, which really consisted of throwing dirt clods at each other from opposite sides of the creek. My sister and I would make sure my brothers had enough ammo for my brothers to dominate the neighbors and for safety my brothers made my sister and I wear ice cream buckets as helmets. When we grew tired of playing cowboys and Indians, my brothers would think up crazy stunts and use me as the trial run before they themselves would do it. Most of the time, they never attempted the stunts because after I tried them they found out it wasn't going to work. The first of these stunts that I can remember involved an ice chest with no lid, my beloved bike helmet (story to follow) and the creek bank. My brothers put me in the ice chest with my bike helmet for safety and pushed me down the creek bank. Let me clarify that this creek bank was rather steep. Half way down the creek bank, my brothers yelled "don't look up." Of course I did and the ice chest flipped, scratching my face to pieces. My sister who had to have a roll in this stunt, carried me to the back door and knocked and ran. This was a regular routine at our house. My mom would find me wounded on the back porch and my siblings would be no where to be found. They would always show up for dinner and have some polished up story of what according to them, actually happened. Normally these stories were pretty far from the truth. Weather or not my mom believed them, I don't know, but I do know that she had to get tired of this at some point when emergency room visits were becoming rather frequent.
I would like for you to also remember that we lived on a farm so there was a never ending supply of things for us to do and new and fun equipment for us to try out, but the most loved and my brothers personal favorite was duct tape. I would like to personally thank duct tape for saving my life a few times but also say that I hate duct tape for some of the pain that I suffered due to its super strength. The most creative uses I can remember both came from my brother Ross. He took it upon himself to teach me to ride my bike. I had had this bike for one day when he decided to take off the training wheels and tape my hands and feet to the bike and took me to the top of the hill and make me learn. This hill was close to 250 yard and the path down this hill was a gravel road. At the bottom of the hill was the creek. To survive this I had to master bike riding by the bottom of the hill and either turn into my driveway or make the sharp curve onto the bridge. Needless to say safety was important to my brothers because once again I was wearing the stupid bike helmet. After I was taped up and my helmet was strapped on tight, my brother counted to 3 and pushed. I made it about 10 feet before falling over. Ross was relentless and sat me up and pushed again, no count to 3 just push. This cycle was repeated until the bottom of the hill and I mastered the bike and turned into my driveway. I would almost bet that this is a record for mastering bike riding.......
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