Tag Archives: lucky

You Won’t Find A Map To Get There

There is a place where you can scavange the dirt in hopes to find treasure.   Take Main Street all the way out, pass through town, pass the Post Master’s house, and a little bit further than the Painted Rock, then take the first dirt path on your right, all the way to it’s obvious end.

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An old wooden fence doesn’t stop you if you park, tie your boots and have your swiss army knife at the ready, those scraggey vines can catch your feet, make you fall, but you can cut through them.  You’ll find the back of the saloon, all paths lead there.  The building is gone now, just broken bits and pieces from kids who party there., but if you go further, you can climb the piles of year’s past trash, you will find stable ground to sit yourself down.

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If you’ve planned, you’ll have tools with you.  Tools will come in handy; the spade to dig and pry, the knife to cut and scrape.  You will  mostly be digging and can place anything in the bag you have in your back pocket for inspection when you get home.  Sometimes, you’ll find an old bottle, or hope that the piece you find bears the name of that Patent Medicine., or will show the bottle maker’s name.  Don’t disregard it if there is dirt and bug carcases inside, they can be gently cleansed, but they’ll never look new.  They’ll bear the tell-tale signs of oxidation showing colours ever so slightly in the mid-day sun.

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As you dig deeper, you’ll find those smaller pieces that have been time-buried from easy finding.  Chards of silver, a broken pendant, or a ring without it’s sparkle.  Coins are always a precious find, but they’ve been getting more elusive to find anymore.   Old chewing gum wrappers decieve the most expensive metal detectors, if you’re lucky to have one with you.  But if it’s a good day, you’ll have plenty of helft in your bag to take home.  And if it was a colossal day of picking, you’ll have another bag with other former trinkets of days’ gone by.

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I was lucky only two or three times, but that was more than twenty years ago.  I hear that dump has been built over, doctor’s now practice their voodoo there.  I wonder if they scavenged their acre plot before concrete stole the view from that old hill.  I wonder if they even know that there was such a place, just outside of town?

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-dld o2.o7.11-

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T10 – On Location, Mondays:  Just outside of town

P. S. #187

When my brother and I were younger we played games in our room, usually an assortment of made-up things to pass the time, but the feats to see who was stronger or faster, were serious business!. When the weather shed it’s snow and cold, we could be found outside, on the playground. He in the sandbox, playing with matches and fluid to light the barbeque (yes, he was a pyro) and I on the swingset or hot metal slide. There were also those “family” ocassions, when Pachisi or the checkerboard for a game of checkers was brought out of the coat closet for the four of us to battle one on one with the roll of the dice.
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I can remember my father telling stories of his youth, which was so very different than ours. He grew up in New York City, Washington Heights to be exact. I thought it was a cool place, but then again, as I child I always fancied the more odd or bohemian and thought those children were lucky to have so much within their reaches, but i quickly learned that the city is no place for childhood, according to my dad.
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The one place that I found most interesting was the roof of his apartment building. That is where my father practiced playing the drums. It is actually a great place to play them, for the city’s hum, drummed out, no pun intended, the racket he was surely making.
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One of the most unusual uses for the city rooftop, can be found in the buildings that house the schools. Dad didn’t grow up with expanses of land between buildings, so where else were they to put the gymnasium? That’s right, he had gym class on the top floor, which was the roof. A few years after telling us this fact, we saw firsthand what he meant. On a trip to see my parents good friends who lived in Brooklyn, we drove up and down the streets of his old neighborhood. Dad was always pointing up, to show the gargoyles that donned the facade, but we slowed down to a stop, when he pointed up, it was a school, his old stomping ground. Where he dribbled basketballs, learned a proper push up, and played the all-time kids favorite – Dodge Ball.
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My brother seemed bothered by this and asked why there was a fence on the roof, and Dad said that they’d lose too many balls if it weren’t there. Of course they would, not to mention that someone may fall off themselves!.

-dld January 24, 2011-

*P. S. #187, Public School #187
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ThinkingTen – On Location, Mondays: On the roof