The Ramp
The ramp to the upper barn door was steep. The dirt was packed hard and even. The ramp had been there forever, at least as long as I could remember. It stood high and menacing, rising into the massive storage barn. Mom was clear that I should stay away from the place or I’d be sorry. "Jonathan Franklin Smith, you don’t go near that place. It’s dangerous. I forbid it. Are you listening to me?"
… a small boy with an appetite for adventure and a small wagon…
"Yes ma’am," I hated when she used my full name. I didn’t like people calling me "John" either, and the worst of all was when people used "Johnny". They always sounded like they were saying "John-nee" which to my mind sounded too much like baby. And that’s how I felt everyone was treating me all the time; like a little baby who couldn’t do anything.
Dad was more to the point. On the subject of the barn’s loading ramp his chief contribution to the discussion was, "Don’t."
The loading ramp however, had a more magnetic attraction. It loomed large in the physical world and likewise figured large in the imagination of a small boy with an appetite for adventure and a small wagon. The older boys on the farm were of no assistance in curbing my enthusiasm. Quite the opposite really. They told stories of their daring adventures on it’s slopes. Making the hard climb during the hot summer mornings pushing their bikes or pulling their wagons behind them. Careening down the near forty-five degree angle incline at break neck speeds. Wind in their hair, sun on their face, fear and exhilaration married as one. They made it sound as though heaven and earth held no meaning unless you made the trip yourself. I would have been fine. Satisfied with my lot. Happy to remain a spectator. That is until the taunting started.
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how you feel bout the name Jack? LOL
I wouldn’t want to give away the ending… you’ll have to “Read more”
Thank you so much for allowing me to rent space on your blog…
-hugs and have a wonderful week-
My pleasure. I had a good time reading your stuff.
Reminded me of the time we frequented diggings. There would be hills of soil and stones on both sides where the ground was being dug up. We would take refuge on opposite ends and throw stones at each other! Dangerous fun.
Love the story.
Watson - Isn’t being a kid great? It’s a miracle we’ve made it this far.
Nice job. A very engaging tale.
Scott - thanks for taking the time to read it.