One of the great things about farm life is there is no shortage of measuring sticks for bravery. Of course, my wife is aware I have a long and proven track record of surviving idiotic feats of recklessness, so I rarely feel the need to prove my valor at this point in my life. But sometimes I do remember those foolhardy days of youth. Yesterday, for instance, I felt an acute bout of nostalgia (and slight puckering of my cheeks) when I walked past the persimmon tree behind our barn. Currently, it’s loaded with unripe persimmons, the perfect test of gallantry for children engaged in the ancient game of one-upmanship known as double-dog dare.
Dare, double-dare, double-dog dare, triple-dog dare. Those were the levels of daremanship. Eating, or at least nibbling, an unripe persimmon was worthy of a double-dog dare, which was about on par with touching an electric fence with a long piece of wheat straw. As far as I know nobody ever earnestly attempted a triple-dog dare, like grabbing an electric fence barehanded. Attempts at triple-dog dares were mostly bluster. Sure, we may have turned over a few rocks here and there to show our willingness to catch a black widow spider, but had we found one I doubt we would have been in its proximity long enough to encapsulate it in a jar. Plus, it’s not like we were lacking in wisdom. Even as children, we realized there was little point in bravery if we couldn’t brag about it—and triple-dog dares were too dangerous to brag about because of our parents. For some strange reason, parents considered that much bravery worthy of a pat on the backside—usually with a switch, wooden spoon, or belt.
Climbing trees was a test of bravery that I usually excelled at, at least until my neighbor Andy and I nearly got stuck in the top limbs of a magnolia tree and my mom threatened to call the fire department. That got us down fast. Nothing negates the bravery earned in climbing to a treetop more than having one’s mom request an embarrassing emergency rescue. Even Andy (who wasn’t the bravest of tree climbers, hence his position on a limb underneath me) realized we’d be better off taking our chances with gravity than living with a rescue on our permanent record. After my mom motivated us “to get down now,” it was no time before Andy was blissfully biking home with orders to say hello to his mom. Erstwhile, once my feet touched terra firma, I was ordered straight to my room. That just goes to show you that you’re usually better off performing courageous acts at a friend’s house and being extradited than performing them in your own parent’s jurisdiction.
Bikes, of course, were associated with many feats of valor, like who could go the fastest down Clay Hill or pop the biggest wheelie or jump the highest over a makeshift plywood ramp. In those days, all these tests were performed without adult supervision because kids rode bikes in the safety of big packs. As long as you stayed together with your friends and rode straight home before supper, then you were allowed the freedom to ride. If an accident did happen, there was at least one kid in the horde who had watched Doogie Howser and could provide basic medical care.
Personally, I don’t remember any friends ever getting seriously injured while riding bikes or performing any other test of bravery. That said, the lapse in memory might be due to all the childhood concussions. We didn’t wear helmets in those days either.
“My” persimmons aren’t ripe either. Actually, I haven’t gone to the back of the farm to check, but I did think about them this afternoon. At 60, I am not about to try one before it is perfectly ripe. I did that when I was a kid and once was enough. I think everyone should try it just once in their life for the experience. 🙂 The worse thing about Persimmons it that they are so darn high on the tree. I have to throw a big stick at them to get them to fall off. I rarely find any on the ground without knocking them off because other critters like them, too. I wonder what a turkey’s face would look like if they bit into an unripe fruit, or maybe an opossum? 🙂 Thanks for sharing!
Indeed, ripe persimmons usually don’t last long here either due to all the critters. I actually like the taste of ripe persimmons. Unripe, however, is a completely different story. Makes my mouth pucker just thinking about it. Thanks for reading!
They are getting ripe here now and I had a few a couple of days ago. It makes the walk to the back of the farm worth while.
You’re a brilliant writer! You whizzed me right back to my own childhood and my reliable 2-wheeled charger, cycling off to our next adventure and making sure to be back in time for dinner.
Thanks for the kind words, Rebel Bee. Hope your bees are doing well and putting on some fall stores for winter!
It’s like listening to my husband recount his childhood to our children, only names and places are different. I guess guys/boys/men all grow up the same, maybe?
Good to know and thanks for reading. I think there’s a lot truth to the statement, boys will be boys, and I suspect all cultures of the world have some form of double-dog dare.
As usual, well done, sir. Brought back memories. Really,really old memories. Won’t share tales of daring-do, as that would require explanation. You know, like what is an “LP”? Why did you clothespin baseball cards to your bicycle wheels? You smoked what? Good read.
Ok, you’ll have to explain the baseball cards in the wheels thing. By the time I came around, packs of baseball cards were so expensive that you put them in plastic protectors, hoping that one day they’d be worth millions of dollars. Turns out all the most popular players were on steriods so now they’re basically worthless, so I might try putting them in bicycle wheels now that they’re not going to make me rich.