Never in a million years would I have considered myself a risk-taker. Though I was the oldest and probably had the most opportunity, still …
And no one ever said to me, “My, my, but your life would be more interesting if you’d take some risks.” In fact, I never heard of or read about anyone saying that to someone else.
Perhaps I didn’t know the word “risk.” Or its meaning.
My life was interesting. At least, I thought so, though, truth be told, I probably never took time to think about it. I was too busy living.
Then many years later, I saw an article in the Weekend section of the state paper. The headline read, “We were safe taking risks before we knew how dangerous it was.” The youngish columnist (Werner Trieschmann, circa 2003) highlighted several situations, some now governmentally regulated, that were not even bothered with back in the day: seat belts, kites, sunburns, swings, Halloween candy and fireworks.
Modern technology has its risks, but I emailed the Kemosabe (his alter ego) to remind him of things we did that he hadn’t mentioned, or to elaborate on those he had discussed.
Riding in the back of Daddy’s pickup, we didn’t need a seat belt. Heck, we barely sat down! A perch on the wheel drum or on the spare tire was certainly less hard on one’s backside than sitting in the bumpy bed.
One Sunday, a brother and I found ourselves sitting in the tailgate-less back end of Mr. Fuller’s truck. For some reason—perhaps Mom had a new baby—we rode home from church with our old neighbor.
Mr. Fuller forgot to stop on our hill to let us off, so what did I do? I hopped out. For punishment, the gravel road jumped up and whacked me smack on the back.
That was the way I learned the rule of physics about moving objects and gravity.
Another daring—and dangerous—experience along those lines, which was loads of fun for us five sisters, was what we called “jump board.” Our carpenter dad always brought home scraps of lumber and other building extras or throwaways, and piled them in the side yard we called “the tennis court.”
We’d locate a long piece of oneby-six and find some shorter pieces that we stacked under it as a fulcrum. No, we didn’t have a sit-down see-saw; we made us a stand-up-andsee-who-could-fly-the-highest one.
I don’t remember how we accessed this contraption, just that we flew into the air when the other end went to the ground. Over and over we did this. Dresses and whatthey-exposed at the apex of the rides were not considered. There were no broken ankles nor sprained wrists. (Sisters, how did we get on “board” this board?)
Our parents weren’t reported by the neighbors for their non-supervisory roles and allowance of such dangerous activities.
Neighbors? Except for our crippled grandmother across the road, the nearest neighbors were a couple of hills away on either side of us.
While we girls were having so much fun, our three brothers were elsewhere devising and riding on stilts. After all, they couldn’t let their sisters rise higher in the world than they.
I don’t believe parents would allow such activities today. I wouldn’t have.
If that weren’t dangerous and risky enough, we jumped off the rope at the swimming hole we called Steel Bridge on the Saline River. I did that only once because it hurt my ears, but all the friends, cousins and siblings seemed to never tire of it—risky or not.
Kids still do it today in different places, and some get hurt. But we never did.
At one time or another, my brothers jumped out of the hayloft, especially those running from sisters who chased them because they messed up our playhouse up there. In those days, we had to play outside because it was too hot in the house.
And we all turned out okay. Better than okay—for we’re all still here to tell about it.
Epiphany: I was a risk-taker after all. I taught school, didn’t I? I got married—twice! And bore four children! And raised one grandchild.
If those aren’t risks … .
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Pat Laster of Benton is the author of the novels A Journey of Choice and Her Face in the Glass.