People often ask me here in New York City what we do for “fun” in Andalusia.
And although I usually answer them with stunningly colorful fabrications about our white-porticoed mansions and hunting dogs (Yankees will believe most anything about Andalusia since they have no idea where it is). the truth is, the most fun I ever had in Andalusia was many years ago.
When I was 8, my favorite thing to do in Andalusia was to drive my Radio Flyer Wagon. There were no video games, no cable, and no more than two movies showing at the Martin Theatre on any given week. Thrills and excitement were had to come by.
Fortunately, my grandparent’s neighbor Shirley owned the aforementioned wagon. In my mind’s eye it is a shiny red jauggernant of destruction, ready to fly down the steep hills of life. In reality, it was nearly rusted plum through and left one’s backside orange after prolonged use.
But when you’re 8 who cares about the color of your posterior? I was fortunate that mine usually stayed in the wagon at all.
You see, my grandparent’s driveway was built on what is considered to be every
Radio Flyer driver’s dream: a steep hill.. Steep hills are hard to find in South Alabama, so I considcred myself lucky that not only did my grandparents have a smooth driveway, but they had the grandparenting genius to build the sucker on what I am convinced is the steepest hill in the great state of Alabama. That driveway was some kind of steep. I think it was something like 89.9 degrees. My grandparents’ friends used to have head-on collisions with it when they didn’t follow my grandfather’s precise exiting instructions.
There was one problem with that driveway, though. Down at the bottom (somewhere near China) there was a sharp curve that banked the wrong way, which is to say, out. So imagine an 8 year old hurtling towards the netherworld at 150 miles per hour in a rusty wagon. The child nears the turn. He shoves the wagon’s primitive steering apparatus to the left, causing the wheels to point right(this is a complicated procedure for an 8 year old boy). But “Dead Boy’s Curve” is too sharp.
The boy is flung out of the wagon and impales himself on his grandmother’s prized azalea bush.
My grandmother imagined that fiasco described above and preempted any thought I might have had of going down the driveway in the Radio Flyer. I was told to remain at the top of the driveway, away from the precipice of doom. But by eight years of age. I had run with a stick, played with fire, and generally broken plenty of others rules, and was still the proud owner of two arms and two legs. I had yet to poke my eyeballs out or cause any deceased member of our family to roll over in their grave (to my knowledge). So on a hot summer day, I decided to do it.
First I prepared the vehicle. From my grandfather’s workbench, I borrowed his spray lubricant and slathered the axles with grease. Then I put on my uncle’s Crimson Tide football helmet. Finally, I strategically placed a bottle of camphor-based ointment at the foot of the hill … my family is convinced that this green ointment is the panacea for modern times; if one day I should accidentally lop off my head, I have no doubt that my mother will simply douse me with the salve and say “Now Morgan, just walk it off, son.”
Luckily, my Grandmother was away at the Baptist church and my grandfather was (what else) mowing the lawn. This was fortuitous for me because that wagon made a lot of noise as I pushed the clattering rusted heap up the might driveway.
At the top, in eight-year-old fashion. I boarded the Radio Flyer and invited my little sister to accompany me, not because I was scared out of my mind, I just … well, I guess … OK, I needed the emotional support. And at this point in our relationship, my sister hadn’t figured out that my ideas weren’t always completely tested.
“This is your captain speaking. Welcome to Andalusia Airlines Flight 007. Please put your tray into an upright position, fasten your headgear, and remove all popsicles on the ground.
I relented and made a check of the aircraft (they don’t call it a Radio FLYER for anything). “Landing Gear,” I hollered.
“Where’s that?” my sister asked. “It’s the wheels.” “Oh, OK, then check.” she said.
“Steering stick.” “Check.” “Brakes.”
“Morgan, we don’t have any brakes,” my astutely observant sister noted.
“OK, then we’re clear for takeoff.”
So there, on West Ridge Drive South, my sister and I began our approach in the rusty Radio Flyer. Soon we picked up speed. Since we had no windshield, the love
bugs bounced off our faces and got in our teeth. We approached ludicrous speeds in excess of 90to-nothin’.
Dead Boy’s Curve and Grandmother’s azaleas were approaching fast. Suddenly, the flight attendant (my sister) lost our only passenger while trying to serve our in-flight snack of grape popsicles. Mathilda, our passenger, and my sister’s favorite doll were gruesomely tossed out of the wagon and created a viscous speed bump as we ran over her doll head. Naturally, being an 8-year-old boy, the demise of Mathilda thrilled me secretly. My sister surmised my emotions I think, probably because I was laughing so hysterically I could hardly drive.
We were continuing to hurtle towards the azalea bush of annihilation when my sister grabbed the steering stick and insisted we tum around to go on a rescue mission for our only passenger. But since we were rapidly approaching the speed of sound, I thought this would be a sorry idea. Thus, an in-flight mutiny occurred.
It was an all-out battle for the steering stick.
Right as we approached the fated curve, the unthinkable happened: the steering stick came off in our hands. It had rusted through. You can imagine our surprise to be nearly at the end of the runaway and without any way to steer the wagon. Too bad Mathilda wasn’t around to be used as a wheel chock. The horror, the horror.
At this point, I was feeling charitable so I gave the stick to my sister and quickly sent a few juvenile Presbyterian prayers up to the Almighty Meanwhile, my smarter-than-average sister jammed the rusty steering stick between the axle and the driveway, creating an arc of sparks that left a beautiful orange wake behind the Radio Flyer.
Mere inches from the end of the driveway and my grandmother’s prized azalea bush, we came to a stop. Doing a quick check of our extremities, we realized we were still alive. It was a three-point landing.
Now I ask you Andalusia, how can living in New York City be more exciting?