Hazardous Experiences

 

                                                                 Hazardous Experiences

    Even the modest requirement that I be home by mealtime would often be relaxed if I could provide a good reason ahead of time. I took full advantage of this freedom. On our frequent weekend visits to Granddaddy Barger's farm, I would roam freely through the woods, over the hills and meadows, being chased by wasps or an angry cow, getting shocked by an electrified fence, riding a horse bareback and being thrown off, cracking walnuts and hickory nuts with a rock, jumping off the rafters of the barn into the hay below, discovering delicate wildflowers in the deeply shaded woods.

    At home in Roanoke I usually played with my cousin Billy and with another friend whose nickname was "Foo". The three of us would trek off to one of the large vacant acreages near the railroad tracks along the edge of the city, where we would skin our legs and arms sliding down cliff-like hills, swing on vines that sometimes broke, and climbed trees, often to find that getting up was easier than getting down. Our favorite games were "Robin Hood", "cowboys and Indians", "cops and robbers", and "allies and Nazis".

   One hair-raising episode occurred when we were exploring along the railroad track and found ourselves halfway across the trestle over Roanoke River when a train rounded the bend a few hundred yards ahead of us. Just being on the trestle thirty feet above the river was scary enough, but having to rush off of it while being careful not to stumble or step between the rails was terrifying. We made it safely, but then we had to endure the engineer's scowls and threatening gestures as the train roared past.

  Frightening as it was, that episode could not compare with the "ice house escapade". The icehouse, which had been abandoned for years, lay near the railroad track about two miles from where we lived. Billy, Foo, and I had discovered it a few weeks before on one of our exploring forays. It was constructed of brick and concrete with a single window high in one end wall. Most of the interior was one huge room three stories high, but along one side wall there were mezzanines at the second and third floor levels. Each mezzanine consisted of a long room with one door, and a balcony. The balcony was reached by climbing steel rungs mounted in one of the end walls.

   On this occasion Foo was unavailable, so Billy and I set out together to play in the icehouse. We didn't tell anyone where we were going, not out of fear that we wouldn't be permitted to go (which surely would have been the case), but simply because we never told anyone where we were going.

   We entered the icehouse and our fantasy world simultaneously. Fleeing from the pursuing Nazis, we scurried up the steel ladder to the second floor balcony, ran into the ice storage room, and pulled the door to after us. The door would not completely close because the top hinge was broken, and the outside edge of the door dragged on the concrete floor. We waited a few minutes until we were convinced that we had successfully eluded the Nazis, then prepared to leave. The door would not budge! Try as we might, pulling and yanking, the heavy metal door refused to move. Apparently some small wood or stone chip had wedged under it as we pushed it to. There was still about an inch opening, and the hinge edge was off the floor, but the friction was just too great for us to overcome.

   Gradually the seriousness of the situation sank in. No one could possibly hear us, no matter how loudly we might call for help, and no one knew where we were. Even if Foo tried to guess where we might be, there were a hundred more likely places he would think of first.

  Fear and frustration led to anger and accusation. But they did not solve our problem, so eventually we were forced to resort to reason. A number of planks had been left lying on the floor. At first, we tried inserting one in the small opening to pry the door open, but we couldn't get the right kind of leverage. Then it occurred to us that we could shove one end of the plank under part of the door, since the hinge edge was still off the floor. I lifted up on the other end while Billy tugged at the door. It remained motionless. Then we tried stacking a few short planks to make a fulcrum. With that arrangement I could push down on the long end of the lever plank and apply leverage to lift the door. This time the door seemed to lift slightly but still didn't open. We added a plank to the fulcrum and tried again. It moved! Only about a half inch, but we knew we had hit on the right method. My heart was pounding as we optimized the height of the fulcrum, and nudged the door open an inch or two at a time, until we could slip through the opening.

   Now, was this experience so traumatic that we learned the lesson not to take such chances ever again? On the contrary. We were more inclined to feel that if we could work our way out of that trap we could pretty well handle any situation.