The Sand Pit

I can’t possibly write about my life without mentioning the sand pit. Across the white sandy road I grew up on, there was a vast field of weeds we called the "Great Waste". Tall clusters of yellow and green weeds swayed in the summer sun for as far as the eye could see. On the other side was another road; one with sparkling beach-white sand, leading down to a sand pit.

We ran around barefoot all day, but the waste had sharp stickers so no one crossed without shoes. Once we reached the other side, footwear flew everywhere and we sped through the hot sand toward the pit.

Constantly warned not to go because the sides might collapse and crush us to death, we relished the added danger and did it anyway! First thing in the morning before anyone missed us, or after supper when grownups were sick of listening to us, we were off and always together.

The deep canyon of loose white sand stretched before us with deep pitches, tall rises and soft mounds of white dirt. We took turns leaping into the air over the gaping pit. For a split second the air caught us, the wind whipping through our clothes as it coursed through the canyon. Then, as quickly as it caught us, it dissipated and our bodies plunged into the sand. It was imperative to land so as not to break anything, which proved harder than it sounds because the object wasn’t just to be airborne, but to turn flips and twists before landing.

One time my cousin, Ricky and I got into an argument. (Can’t remember what it was about now.) He refused to fight me because he was scared of my mom, but he didn't mind "jumping" me over it.

Ricky was a little older than me, long and sinewy with determination like nothing I've ever seen. He was agile, capable of some of the best jumps among us.

For judges, we brought a couple of my cousins and one of my aunts. At age 17, my aunt didn’t like either one of us and wouldn’t be biased. The truth was, she only came to get blackmail material but we were too stupid to know that.

Ricky went first, lining up at the back of the road. His brown eyes gleamed excitedly.

“I’m going to start with a twist, roll into a back flip, then cartwheel before I hit.”

I laughed.

“Right.”

“What?” He retorted, puffing out his chest. “You don’t think I can do it?”

“I know you can’t.”

The truth was, if anyone could do that? It would be Ricky. Still, to get that much hang time, he'd to have to jump way out, almost in a linear position, and spin his body into that back flip. He was twice my size. I had no inclination how he thought he was going to do it.

Snatching his tank top off and handing it to my aunt he turned another sly grin in my direction.

“Betcha five bucks I can do it.”

“You don’t even have five bucks.”

Reaching into the pocket of his faded jean shorts, Ricky produced a five spot.

“I don’t have five bucks.” I admitted.

“That’s alright.” He told me. “I can get five dollars worth of chores out of you.”

I thought of all the things he'd said, and gazed at the gaping orifice with a sense of dread. This was dangerous. Even if we survived we’d probably get a whoopin' and be grounded for months.

“Just jump.” I prompted.

“What? You scared?” He asked.

“No.” I replied.

“This is exactly what I hate about girls.” He mouthed. “All 'talk' and no 'do'. You wanna act all high and mighty but when it comes time to produce, it’s a man that gets the job done.”

“Butt-hole” I retaliated.

“Chicken.” He laughed, pushing out his chest and clucking.

Everyone was laughing, even my aunt.

“Fine!” I yelled to the sound of “oooohing”. “You wanna see who gets the job done?”

“Yeah.” He chided.

“If you do it, I’ll do one of your chores…”

“Two.” He persisted.

“Fine!” I shouted. “But if I do it.... pony-up the dough or I'm telling.”

“Works for me.” He laughed. “I know who's getting firewood tomorrow.”

“Just jump, mouth.” I growled between gritted teeth.

“Alright.” He barked, slinging his hands and taking a deep breath.

I was scared to death. Ricky had done several jumps similar to that and deep down, I worried he'd perfected it. He was good at everything. At times he wasn’t overly bright, but I think most teenage boys aren't. Articulate and talented, Ricky could draw anything, and had a lot of book sense. Everyone expected him to be a military hero, someone capable of anything. Why I was there is beyond me. I guess teenage girls aren’t too bright either.

The moment of truth arrived. He backed up to give himself more running room.

My aunt's hand rose to signal him. His breath was calm as he calculated each move. His eyes bored ahead with the precision of laser beams and his nostrils flared almost angrily. I silently likened him to Midnight, my aunt’s stallion as he pawed nervously at the dirt, ready to lurch ahead.

“Go!” She shouted.

Her voice and his action seemed to happen together, his knees pumping so fast you almost couldn’t see them. Short blond hair lit silver in the sun as he leapt, nearly as straight as an arrow, angled up toward the sky.

We raced to the side of the canyon to watch his maneuver. He flawlessly executed the twist, back flip and then was just about to put his hand out for the air cartwheel when the ground raced up to meet him. I screamed, thinking he would break his arm, but he managed to bring it in, tuck his stomach in and roll into a somersault. Angry, he came straight out of that roll to a standing position and kicked at the dirt, swearing.

Once the excitement abated, my cousin stood at the bottom of the white chasm shouting up at me with sun cascading off the sand covering his tanned skinned. At fourteen-years-old, I found myself strangely invigorated.

Hey. If he could do it…

I turned on my heel, remembering what I'd seen him do, and got farther back than he did. My legs were shorter and I would need more speed.

“Roni!” He yelled from the bottom. “Don’t do it! It’s too dangerous.” He shouted.

“Too late, jerk!” I yelled back, giving my aunt the “nod”. I drew a series of short breaths, waiting for her hand to drop. In the background and almost indiscernible, my cousin tried to coax me out of it. I barely heard more than the wind and my heart pounding.

Her hand dropped, and I took off. The edge rush at me and I considered stopping, but my cousin appeared below, squinting off the sun and I gave up all hope of that.

Leaping unfettered into the air, like in my diving classes, I twisted right away to get that back flip. As I came out of it, I expected to see the ground coming, but blue skies loomed above. I angled forward, spinning into an air cartwheel, and landing on my side in the sand. Somewhere amid all that flipping and twisting, I lost sight of the ground and just did what I could before I hit. When I landed, my aunt and cousins screamed (not Ricky of course. He was laughing).

The air left my body and I found myself tumbling, breathless. My body tingled with excitement and instantly, I caught my sense of direction. Putting both arms out with elbows bent, I caught myself from the next somersault and sprang to my feet, stumbling and running to the bottom. I still managed to trip over something and landed on my back, no breath left in me.

Ricky was laughing as his head appeared over me.

“I can’t believe you did it!” He shouted, throwing the five dollar bill down on my chest. Then, kissing the tips of his fingers, he placed them on my forehead and said: “I’ll go get Aunt Irene.”

As he walked away he shouted to everyone that I was okay. I managed to take a few short breaths. As my equilibrium returned I sat up, stabled myself and tried to yell for my cousin not to get my mother, but it came out more like a scream.

He stopped and turned to face me, his eyes filling with worry.

“Are you alright?”

I nodded, rolling my hand for him to come back. Sauntering over, he leaned down to hear me better.

“Don’t get mama.” I whispered. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll be darned.” He giggled, putting his hand down and helping me up.

Content not to argue or ever to bring up his loss, the Georgia summer heat often found us standing under shade-trees sipping colas from glass bottles... and Ricky was always there to open my bottles for me out of a newly acquired respect.

Ricky grew up to join the Marines. He did some professional scuba diving afterward but soon joined the police force and the volunteer fire department in his town (which is funny since he was kind of a firebug as a kid). He never lost his love for firearms, something that stayed with a lot of boys who grew up with us in the country. One year as Ricky cleaned his weapon at a firing range a misfire took his life.

For my part, I choose to recall him standing against the white background of the sandpit, a stark vision of strength, still a strapping youth full of himself and full of life.

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