The Tangled Path to Glory

There is, of course, one great story that stands head and shoulders above all the rest. My brother and I were cast by the fates in starring roles. To skip this story would certainly make me remiss in telling the events leading to my discovery of the ultimate thrill or joy of living. There was a youngster who lived next door to us whom we shall call Joey. Joey was an emaciated kid, fully the runt of the litter and a poor result of malnutrition. Joey was the kid we would beat up and pummel just for practice or to keep in shape. There is always one kid in every peer group who keeps asking for it. Joey was that kid, and we obliged him by giving it to him. It so happened that God had smiled upon my brother and me to give us the gifts of being rather handy with tools. We also had the materials to build. We had in those days a fascinating pastime which we termed trash-can-hunting. Pure and simple, this was merely looking through the hardware throwaways of the local tradesmen. Some highly prized articles were wheels and tin or pipe of any kind. On one of these soirees, we had the good fortune of finding four large scooter wheels and about fifteen square feet of galvanized steel. We were delirious with ecstasy. Our fondest dreams were now coming to fruition as we sat down to plan our "crator". The untutored might ask at this point for a definition of a crator. Loosely defined, a crator is a desecrated form of the famous soap box derby cars without the rules governing its plan, size, weight or use. The crator was about five feet long and about three feet wide consisting of 4x4s and 2x4’s. The seat was a bucket seat from a '34 Chevy. The hood was then totally encased in galvanized steel and nailed to the frame with twenty penny spikes. Across the front, we put a 2x12 (native) four foot long board and onto this we affixed two 3/4" pipes four feet long. We, for a time, had fixed the metal part of a pitchfork onto the front, however our father quickly put an end to this "nonsense" as he preferred to call it. Our crator was the envy of the neighborhood mainly because of its durability. The bliss or joy of the whole escapade was the ramming or annihilation of others, their persons and property without so much as a scratch on you or your crator. This was relatively easy for us to do as our crator was approximately 260 pounds, far outweighing those of the rest of the neighborhood. Joey wanted a crator, too, so his father journeyed down to the local grocer and picked up an orange crate that had just made the lazy, comfortable trip from sunny Florida. To this scant orange crate of 1/8" slats he affixed four buggy wheels (spoked type) from his sister's play baby carriage. This little drama took several days. My brother and I noted all this hustle and bustle from the pit area in our backyard. Joey's father had painted this wobbly contraption, a light baby blue enamel. The paint was just dry, and they were putting the finishing touches on their crator while Jim, another neighbor, helped. We watched ominously from our pit area. At last!!!!!! The great day had come! Joey, his father and neighbor Jim were going through last minute instructions like a launch countdown. Those last words of Joey's dad will always ring in my ears as long as this diaphram will continue to function. I quote, “Joey, you had better be careful of the Oyer boys!”