Deadly Antics of a '70s Teen Boy

By rights, I should be dead; dead, or at least severely injured. Why? Because I was a teen boy growing up in the 1970s in a little town called Ogdensburg.

Back then, we didn’t have “helicopter moms” - at least none of the guys I hung out with did; as long you came home for supper, or by dark, moms didn’t seem to care too much. They trusted you to do the right thing, or failing that, another adult would wring your neck. That’s the way it worked back then, and the “correcting” adult didn’t get yelled at by your parent; YOU got the blame, as it should be.

So back to my death or dismemberment that should have been.

There were many chances for me to be killed or injured, right up there with infantryman in a war, I’d suppose.

Back then as a kid, to get anywhere, you either walked or rode your bike - the latter my choice as I lived about 3 miles out of town. I would ride on the shoulder of Route 37, Riverside Drive they used to call it, which was about 3 feet wide. Tractor-trailers would roar by me, within a couple of feet, scaring the hell out of me with the noise and the tornadic wind effect their massive size wrought. They would never push over or slow down.

Evel Knievel was in his heyday back then, and so were wannabes like me; I’d set up ramps made out of too-thin plywood that would crack as I went over them, dumping me over the handlebars, or, I’d go over too slow, and not getting any “air time” would still go ass end over tea kettle. One time, I “split my head open” with a particularly nasty run - I had cut my scalp open and had to get stitches. That was one injury mom’s spit couldn’t fix. Mom’s Spit - that was something as useful as any of today’s solvents. With a lick of her thumb, she could clean up my face, remove a stain on the floor, or shine sterling silver I think. My brother and I were lucky that Ma was an RN, given all the hell we’d get into. It was a curse though, when I’d try to fake being sick in a sorry attempt to skip school. She knew when someone was sick - sick enough to stay home. Even then, I think she toyed with the idea of getting me there in an ambulance. My sister never took chances like boys did, that I know of, but girls had sneaky ways of hiding things; we boys were too stupid and wore our adventures on our sleeves the way soldiers wore their medals on their chests.

Of course, things that go boom were a natch with boys; we loved the noise and either the destroying of something or propelling an object at ballistic speeds. Fireworks were always a safe way to blow up things and make noise, but could be dicey, as the fuses could burn quickly without warning, or at a normal pace. One time, I lit one, put my arm back to throw it, and it went off in my hand - and right next to my ear. Instantly, my fingers went numb and my ears were ringing, and I could smell gunpowder. I didn’t do that again.

We would place a firecracker under an empty coffee can that was somewhat sealed to the ground, light it,  and watch it launch 20 feet into the air. Some guys, well versed in the art of “off-label” use of fireworks would light an “M80” - basically a trainer stick of dynamite - and throw it into a pond, lit, and if you did it just right, it would go off underwater, being really a small depth charge,  and watch stunned fish float to the surface.

Teen boys, of course, would try to kill each other with these weapons; we were young men after all.

Ed, Mark, and I were at my house, and doing some weird hide-and-seek thing (I guess) and I saw Mark hide in my bedroom closet and close the door. I lit a firecracker and threw it in, blocking the door shut, but he plowed the door open, knocking me down to get away from the mortal danger.

Ed and I used to hang out at his house quite a bit and had these neighbor boys we “fought with” in a non-physical sense. Well, Ed came up with the idea of making grenades, him being a war film aficionado and all, it was only a matter of time. What we did was put Play-Doh in a mini-grenade-like mold he had, and the firing pin was a firecracker. Press it all together, let it harden overnight, and ladies and gentlemen, a World War skirmish was coming to 300 block of Morris St in the ‘burg. As I remember, they worked pretty well, and those other idiots didn’t mess with us much more, being the obvious international arms dealers we were.

Of course, we had guns, somewhat safely used. Mark was our guy with the instruments of destruction, and we’d take his .22 and go for walks with Ed and other guys along the trails down by where the closed prison is now, across 37 from the Mental Hospital (the ‘burg was known for it’s elite visitors). We’d walk along railroad tracks sit down on a bridge, and try to shoot tadpoles. It was kinda like a scene out of Stand By Me. I recall one time going with Mark and his grandfather, to a shooting range, as I recall. We got back in the car, me in the back seat, and Mark gave me the .22 and for some stupid reason, I pulled the trigger, shooting into the side of the car. “What was that?!” His grandfather asked. “Nothing,” I said, but I got found out. Ok, now that was stupid.

Gunpowder-related schemes weren’t all we toyed with; no, gravity was a lot quieter and in plentiful supply. Mark and I “sorta” broke into the grain elevator, just a stone’s throw away from his house on North Roseel St. I say “sorta” because the boarded-up window was kinda broken in. I think he had been in there before, and he led us up to the top, and it was very dark - now there would have been bodies they’d never found if we’d fallen into those cement silos. But to the top we made it, out some door, and up there, I’m guessing, some 125 feet, with no guard rails, looking over the river. Great view though. Needless to say, we made it down ok.

The benefit of older age was lost on us, in the sense you’d think we had become smarter. No, well into our late teens we were still doing stupid stuff; me probably more than the others, but they were no choir boys either. I remember walking out to see my girlfriend on Pray Rd, a few miles outside of town. In an effort to cut my walking time, I went off-road and cut through the woods - I intended to go diagonal instead of over and up. Well, I got lost. Like…lost. All I could think of was climbing a tree high enough to get my bearings. I must have gone up about 40 feet before I could see which way to go. Had I fallen - another body that would still not have been found. Anyway, off that-a-way I went, and, sigh, had to cross a shallow, swampy pit….God what hormones do a young man’s mind.

Then there was the time I was trying to perform a sheet metal repair in the trunk of my ’73 Mustang and drilled into my gas tank. That would have been quite the fill-up had that gone wrong.

One summer I was employed by an old Boston painting contractor, a miserable old soul, to help out with the painting of the inside of Notre Dame Cathedral in the ‘burg. If you’ve ever been in there, you’ve seen how high those vaulted ceilings are. I think they were about 60’, and my job, being the young, stupid and semi-brave kid, had to build scaffolding up to that height so we could lay down boards so we could walk around and roller paint the ceiling - basically a floor. There I am, some 40’ up, walking on a saggy plank from one end to the other, building up another row of scaffolding. Pull that board up, and do it again. I was like Karl Wallenda up there with, not a long pole to keep my balance, but a vertical section of scaffold. I remember the priest at the time, a portly but loud fella walked under the massive erector set we had created, and me, being way up there on top, yelling down, “Hey Father!” he looked up. “Yeah?!” I said, “I hope this isn’t as close to Heaven as I get!” He laughed a bit, and said I had no worry. Oh, even then I had bad humor.

My readers will recall the boating antics I detailed in a column, flouting time-honored traditions of safe boating, despite the Safe Boating course I was required to take by the Coast Guard Auxiliary (if memory serves).

Alas, I didn’t die, and had no really serious injuries; what I did have was some stories with friends that I still remember today.