A Yo Ho Ho and a Merry Young Soul

The week-long warm rain gave respite to hot asphalt and summer temperatures and I wished I was nine-years-old again. We lived two blocks up from Liberty Park and the City had not yet replaced the inadequate storm drains. When rain came, I was outside kicking through water as it rushed down the deep gutters. I discovered the exhilarating adventure of box riding; a summer luge event where I’d climb in and hang on for the one-block ride then jump out and drag it back home. Up the street, down the street, and up and down again until the box disintegrated beneath my weight. I had plenty of boxes so as long as the rain lasted, so did I. Sitting Indian-style was more stable but headfirst brought the bigger thrill. I’d blast down what I considered a class-five ride and splash hands, then head, then feet last into the temporary reservoir at the end of the street. Each trip down was a maiden voyage: flat box, folded box, rounded or square. It was a fine way to spend the afternoon alone—just me as the Captain of the U-Haul or pirate of the Johnny Walker. And when the cardboard sides sagged, I’d stack one on the other creating a maritime boneyard on the banks of my river.