Me, Ogre, and the Speedway

A family member of a prominent racing family was injured today when a propane tank exploded. This family has done a great deal of good in our community within its 50+ years of existence, not only with jobs and charities, but with great races and building a sense of community. In fact, looking at video footage of the raceway, I couldn't help remember my time there as a "groupie."

My brother and a group of his friends decided to go to the speedway one Friday night because anyone who wanted to pay the entry fee could race a car. I didn't have anything to do, and I had a vicious crush on one of his friends, so I tagged along. Within minutes, I was smitten, both with the guy and with 1/4 mile racing as a whole. I loved the sound of the engines as they revved at the tree. I loved the smell of burning rubber as cars revved their engines and locked their brakes. I especially loved the sound of a muffer-less car flying down the track. It was exciting!

The current speedway is the updated, modernized version of the place where I once hung out. Then, it was a simple track with several lanes, a snack shack next to the staging lanes, and the ability to stand near the start to simply see, hear, and experience the thrill of the race. When it rained, the entire track became a river, making it hard to run to our cars. The pits were filled with guys in my age group and their fathers, stinking of cigarettes, oil, and sweat, a smell I grew to appreciate.

I had friends who raced, so it was exciting to stand in the staging lanes with them before their races, watching their other buddies head down the track. Occasionally, someone would let me ride along as they raced, which was always fun. We'd often walk the pits, looking for someone a friend of mine knew, or visiting with other gearheads as they readied themselves for the next race. Once, we were so far into the pits and my friend's race was due, we crowded into some guy's race car and headed up to the staging lanes. I sat, straddling the transmission.

Because I went so often, I knew the guy at the gate, who'd wave me through without paying my 5.00. I'm sure it's more than five bucks now, but then, five bucks was a lot of money, especially when I worked in a restaurant. My shift seemed to take forever on Fridays, and I often ate dinner in the car as I hurried to the speedway. Once racing was over, it was time to eat. Pizza Hut or Village Inn were our preferred choices. It was usually me and five or more guys at a table (my mother was scandalized), and if it was pizza, they'd wait for me to take what I wanted before they dove in, often polishing off a couple of pizzas in a matter of minutes while downing pitchers of pop faster than the server could bring them. Naturally, being young men, there was a great deal of belching that took place, each guy trying to outbelch the others.

After a few years, we all went our separate ways, grew up, moved elsewhere. But sometimes, when I sit in my backyard and can hear the engines revving and smell the rubber burning, I send a silent thank you to Gomer, Ogre, Mike, and Chris for taking me under their wings and making my Friday nights filled with fun and laughter.

Summer Peace

The dappled leaves overhand the shards of brownish-green grass while the sun refuses to set without a fight. The chain link fence glistens with sunlight and water droplets while the click-click-click of the neighbor's sprinkler and the birdsongs serenade us in our backyard.

Overhead, the sky is cornflower blue, deepening and turning a silvery-gold, while mere wisps of clouds trail by. The air is heavy with woodsmoke from the fire my 11 year old started in our old, never used, chimenea. At my feet is our aging Daisy dog, traumatized but clean and fluffy from her bath today. I rest comfortably in the patio chair that was my grandmother's, feet up on an old metal table, breathing in the scene around me.

My son, newly shorn with a Mohawk--his preferred summer haircut--has a hatchet in hand and is whacking pieces of wood into shards with an energy that shows his age. His incessant chatter while breaking wood peppers the air as ash from the newspaper he just shoved into the chimenea showers on us. I'm not sure what he's saying; in fact, I'm not sure he's even talking to me. He's proud of his developing muscles and strength, and he's eager to show me what a man he's becoming.

My husband, the perpetual piddler, is trying to coerce our sprinkling system into working. He cannot sit still and relax; he's in constant motion. He too is talking to himself, and in this moment, his voice is part of the song of the evening. He can never simply sit and inhale a summer day or evening; instead, there's always another project to complete. But he smiles deeply and gives me information about our irrigation system I won't remember past the moment.

Ten months of a year, I spend behind the walls of a stone building, looking out windows, wishing for time outside (unless it's snowing or raining). Between the time my work is temporarily finished and the time to start dinner, a few mere hours of outside time are allotted to me. For me, summer is an out-of-doors time-from morning until dark, watching leaves ripple in the wind and bees, wasps, and other flying insects cavorting on air. Cotton dances on light, tickling breezes; birds swoop in and out, busily building nests or seeking food for their babies.

Peace descends.

Subject to the comments of others

This morning, my son informed me that he could no longer use our toothpaste because a kid on the bus told him his breath smelled bad. As a mom, my heart broke a bit more to hear that and to see my son make a decision based on another's comment.

I remember comments made to me as I was growing up: my hair and eyes were "too dark;" I was "fat and ugly;" I chewed "like a cow;" words disguised as swords eating away any self-confidence I tried to develop. I internalized these comments, not sharing them with others who might understand or who could provide comfort. Early teens are such an ugly time in most of our lives: ugly physically but also mentally. It seems like the insecurities we develop during that time shape who we become.

My son must hear disparaging remarks frequently because he makes them about himself at home. He is upset with his weight, but he makes poor choices about food and exercise. He criticizes his height, but there's nothing that can be done about it. And the worst: he talks about having no friends, but he's highly critical of each person who tries to be his friend. He seems to want the "perfect" friend, but he won't listen as I try to explain the necessity of accepting people for who they are.

It's funny though; the notion we can make rude and inappropriate comments about others with no consequences, or so we think. As Americans, we must be an unhappy group because of the ferocity we have when attacking others. What is the purpose of attacking other people for their imperfections? Why do we think we have the right to criticize others? Why do we think we have the "right" to attack others for their looks, thoughts, beliefs, and attributes?

The internet, for example, is riddled with such people. Sometimes I read the comments on an article with a sort of disgusted fascination regarding the cruelty of others. In fact, one of our family members was involved in an accident that critically injured her child, and the comments posted about her were horrific. People jumped to conclusions about her and the situation, saying vile, untrue comments. They didn't know her but they made comments, comments that are in cyberspace forever.

It seems like the playground bullies have found new avenues to make their hurtful comments: the internet. What's sad is how many bullies have bred children who do the same thing as they once did: destroy the confidence in others. As a parent, how can I help my son navigate the viciousness of others when it's all around him and in many forms? How can we as a society emphasize that vicious comments are not acceptable and won't be tolerated?

Or do we simply tolerate these comments and the people who make them?