Last weekend, I went to the wake for Mr. Bartels. Like many wakes, it was a mixed affair. We remembered Mr. Bartels fondly, but also had a chance to catch up with friends that we grew up with. Personally, I walked through the waiting line four times visiting with various friends from my past. Facebook is a great way to stay connected, but seeing people in the flesh offers a free flow of conversation that Facebook cannot. This reconnection brought back a flood of memories from yesteryear. Last year, I dedicated the month of February to my Mom since it was the month of her birth. This year I will wander through growing up in the Meadows. I like to think that Mr. Bartels would like that he sparked these memories.

Periodically, I run into Mark Sweeney, and periodically I am reminded by him that I broke Michelle Sweeney’s arm. Now, I may or may not have come up with the idea to have king of the mountain on a rickety old wood picnic table. You know the type of table. It has peeling red paint and warped, rough wood. And it also has a dangerous wiggle from side to side because the wood around the screws holding it together has rotted out, so there’s really no stability. It seemed precarious even if too many full dinner plates were on it at one time. Clearly, this is the perfect mountain for king of the mountain. As if that table isn’t enough, we also placed an old beach folding chair on top as a throne for our king. You know the type of chair. It barely opens because the hinges are nearly rusted shut. The “fabric” is brittle and stabs you on your bare legs as you sit on it. In fact, some of the “fabric” is just plain missing, making it possible that you may fall through the chair at any moment. Clearly, this is the perfect throne. Now, I don’t know if Michelle was the first king, or if she toppled someone to get the privilege of sitting on the throne on the mountain. Either way, things were not stacked in her favor. We said go, a bunch of kids tried to climb on the wiggly table, and Michelle went flying off the throne on top of the table. She landed in the grass on one arm, breaking it. I am not entirely sure if I was responsible for that particular game, but it is certainly something I could have come up with, so there it is. I broke Michelle’s arm. Michelle, I am truly sorry.

Another memory that came flooding back is related to the relentless and ever present morning swim team practices. We would walk to practice every morning barefoot (of course). By mid-June, we could walk over the glass that was always present by the creek without even worrying about cutting our leather bottomed feet. We (Catherine, Phil, and I) would meet up with the Wendy and Debbie Smith and Sarah Taylor as they walked barefoot through the grass under the wires. We usually got to practice on time, but we would sit on the floor of the locker room and pile our towels in the center of our circle and pretend we were having a bonfire. Whomever had the reddest or orangest towel would put theirs on top, as a fire. Everyday, poor Eileen (the coach) would try to extract us from our fire. We would usually sing some modified version of “Come-on Eileen” which included new lyrics about the pain of swimming too early in the morning. Donna Hahn may have joined us for the beginning of the fire, but she was far more studious of a swimmer, and would usually jump in for warm-ups the first time Eileen asked. The rest of us held out a bit longer. I don’t know how that poor woman put up with us.

Our days back then started with swim practice, moved on back home for breakfast, and then brought us back to the pool for diving practice around noon. If we were lucky, we squeezed in a soap opera at the Smith’s house. Afternoons were ours to do with what we wanted. Tuesday and Thursday nights were reserved for swim meets. Life revolved around the pool. I try to keep these to 800 words, so join me next week for more memories of the Meadows. Feel free to share your childhood memories in the comments. Take care this week friends.