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 Growing up in a 1950's Southern California post-war housing neighborhood It seemed there was never a shortage of metal roller skates laying around when you needed them. Or discarded wooden orange crates for that matter. The thick, hard-sided ones. Not those flimsy, lightweight crates you find today. And a good piece of one by six lumber appropriated for the day's skateboard project. It wasn't going to be a run-of-the-mill skateboard, but a super-deluxe bugger with a kid-riding crate on the front end. And if it works out, a rope-activated steering pivot for added maneuverability. Santos Jr. and I had known each other since we were three when our parents moved to Fullerton, California in the early1950's. Our endeavors spanned the gambit of fort and skateboard manufacturing, to building exploration and hiking to the beach by ourselves on a hot summer day, which was a considerable task from the suburbs to the Pacific Coast Highway. It was like that back then. No fear. And our parents lived with complete confidence knowing we'd be back before suppertime. And we always were. It was a time of moral responsibility that was equally practiced by society as a whole. And we all depended on it. But we also had great role models such as John Wayne, Charlton Heston and Roy Rodgers. I loved Santos Sr. as much as my own father, and other nationalities eventually moved into the neighborhood who exemplified a solid patriotism, moral responsibility, dignity and love for America. The war had brought a fine gathering of the middle-class together in Southern California who happily lived, coexisted and treasured their moments by the celebration of God, family and country. It wasn't until much later when we graduated to the solid, hard rubber roller-rink quality wheels for our creations, but that didn't stop our progress. First came the modification of Santos' sister's skates which required the easy removal of the shoe mounts, then the mounting to the board, which took several bent-over nail heads to affix them. With that accomplished we were ready for the final assembly of our prototype vehicle. After carefully eye-balling the center of the crate over the top of the skateboard, a couple ten-penny nails (nuts and bolts came a couple years later) were driven into the crate and through the skateboard. We knew better to hammer over the protruding nails underneath for safety purposes. With that accomplished, Santos eagerly crawled inside the orange crate while I took the helm. I awkwardly gripped the top of the orange crate with both hands and gleefully shoved off on our maiden voyage. The only problem with growing up in Southern California is that everything is flat. Unless you wanted to traverse the roller-coaster roads of Hillcrest Park in downtown Fullerton, which was well within our radius of exploration, you'd have to make due with the neighborhood streets to road test your creations. Which was just as well since it wasn't long before one of those evil little stones, which have been tripping up kid's skateboards for generations, slipped under a metal skate wheel and caused us to tumble head over heels! Santos landed on top of his father's lush ivy bed from the weight of me crashing into, and bursting, the orange crate. We both shook our heads a couple of times, then took assessment of our wounds. I got stabbed in the side by a piece of the shattered orange crate and Santos ended up with a golf ball sized knot on his forehead. We had both sustained some pretty good scrapes and lacerations; a surprising amount of damage from such a minor fall. But it was kinda neat. I looked at our sorrowful state and it dawned on me that now would be a good time to reenact that old Indian custom (we believed) of a blood oath. We were the best of friends, and what the heck, we were already bleeding, so now was as good a time as any. We pressed our punctured forearms together, then we both swore, “With this flow of blood we are now brothers!” A great deal of laughter followed. We took a dip in his family's Doughboy pool to wash and sterilize our wounds, then we laid out, heads down, on a hot summer sidewalk to dry off. A therapeutic childhood ritual. Dad put a stack of his Billy Vaughn records on the HiFi in the living room while BBQueing steaks outside on the patio to entertain family and friends. He slid open the glass double doors so the two alto saxophones singing, “Sail Along Silv'ry Moon” could be heard throughout the neighborhood! Life was pretty good. Michael Vines is a freelance writer who lives in South-Central Kentucky. His "Slice of Life" essays have been published in statewide newspapers and Amazon Kindle ("Ain't Life Peachy")
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 Even though my worldly existence hearkens back to the days when pocket change would fill the gas tank (and they’d often throw in a case of Coke, too), I’m still amazed when a seemingly ordinary day unexpectedly turns into total chaos. It’s not simply a matter of having a bad day, everybody has them, but I stand in awe as to how everything that can go bad DOES go bad, and how it always seems to happen at the same time! It was a busier than normal day when the wife drove out of town for a meeting while I kept an eye on the kids at home. We went into town to take care of the usual errands, but on the way back I started to feel a sharp, nagging pain in my right side. I had the same pain at work the day before and it went away after a couple of minutes, but this time it just kept getting worse. When we got home I had the kids unload the groceries while I slumped into the easy chair while grabbing my side. Incredibly, the pain got even worse, and so was my concern as to what was causing it. I’d lost a granddad over a hundred years ago to a burst appendix, but no one else on either side of my family had an appendectomy that I could recall. Since it was Saturday, our friends and neighbors were away so panic had also set its claws into my side as to how I was going to get away to an Urgent Care clinic. I put our occasionally responsible teenager in charge of the younger ones and jumped into the car for a mad dash into town, but I didn’t make it a mile down the road before the now searing pain forced a hasty retreat back home. Being far away from professional medical help is one of the few drawbacks to living in the country, but we had a well-conceived plan in effect that would cover any possible emergency occurrence, except this one. I tried driving again after I caught my breath but came up with the same inescapable result. It was time to dial 911, which immediately escalated my pulse rate and stress level to Stage 2. What a thrill. The kids were busy with their Nintendo’s and were hardly distracted by the paramedics. I inquired how I was supposed to fit on the narrow, metal railroad tie with wheels they brought in with them, and was told the gurney fits all but one size. That size is mine. After being wired for vital signs I was packed away inside a hermetically sealed meat locker called an ambulance. I assume it’s hermetically sealed in order to preserve the contents should they expire on the way to their destination. I can’t help but think ambulances are recycled Good Humor Ice Cream trucks since that’s the sound they make when the back door is closed (you have to be over 50 to know that). You would, as a side note, feel quite safe in the back of an ambulance if you had to drive through a dense swarm of angry killer bees. I now know what a side of beef feels like on the way to the market. An ambulance’s automotive suspension is an extension of the gurney that’s inside of it. With arms flopping side to side at every turn, I could feel every single rock in the road during the journey into town as if we were rolling on metal wheels. At least admittance into the hospital went smoothly (entering through the side door has its advantages), and I was pushed into a room where I waited, impatiently, to be seen. Lying down when you’re in that kind of pain doesn’t cut it, so I slid onto the visitor’s chair and clung to the door handle while panting like a dog on a hot summer day. A very welcomed nurse finally came in and took my vital signs and expertly extracted a couple vials of my blood while the ER physician asked a few questions. The blood test revealed no infection and an x-ray confirmed what the doctor had suspected; a kidney stone. “Don’t worry. It’s not serious,” he said, incredulously. “Feels like a boulder, doesn’t it?” he asked. “More like Comet Kohoutek,” I said, gasping. “It’s like a man giving birth,” the nurse chirped in. “Fine,” I said, “then get me a bed in the Paternal Ward, quick!” As he left the room the doctor said, “We’ll get you something for the pain. In the meantime, welcome to the club!” I just love those lifetime membership fraternities. I was already a member of the Fraternal Order of the Hemorrhoid, so why not join another one? While dwelling on that thought during my medically induced euphoric state of contentment, I decided we should all be proud of the afflictions we’ve survived, and should let the world know of our pride through our signatures! We could sign our names with a degree, such as, Mike Vines, H.ks. (Hemorrhoid/kidney stone), or more formally, Mike Vines, Ph. Pks. (Painful hemorrhoid/Painful kidney stone). Just a thought. I was released from the hospital with printed instructions on what to expect when the kidney stone passes, and my very own plastic pee filter used to collect the urological invader. The idea is to verify the passing of the stone, then submit it to a lab for analysis in order to determine what kind of foods you should avoid to help prevent another occurrence. The 12 hour ETA of the stone turned into 24 hours and I grew concerned. Did that little sucker get stuck on the way out or what? The meds were helping a lot but I just wanted it to be over with. I was expecting a pain similar to a spiny blow fish edging its way down my urinary tract, but instead the Rock of Gibraltar passed unceremoniously through the pipeline 48 hours later. The result of my labor; a single, approximately 2 millimeter, one gram, multifaceted object of unknown composition. The emotional description wouldn’t make it past the editor’s desk. When I took the stone to my doctor’s office for analysis the lab technician exclaimed, “Oh, passing a kidney stone is like a man giving birth!” The analysis came back a few days later as calcium oxalate, and wouldn’t you know it, chocolate, one of my favorite indulgences, is at the top of the “Don’t Eat” list! When hearing about my affliction, a construction worker friend commented that he had broken his back twice on the job, but neither time was it as painful as the kidney stone he had passed. Passing a kidney stone is indeed a painful experience, but I doubt it is anywhere near as painful as giving birth. Why? Because I didn't tear off the arms of bystanders, although the pain was constant and lasted for several hours. A close second, however, is the pain I felt when ripping a pound of fur off my Neanderthal chest while removing the adhesive-backed electrode pads that the paramedics had left attached to my torso. But if it’s a birthing analogy they want to make out of all of this, I’m game. Let’s say the very same stone I submitted for lab analysis found its way to the nearest landfill. Over eons of time the earth eventually broke up into tiny segments that traveled throughout the great expanse of our galaxy. Modesty precludes me from creating an entire universe, so I’ll concentrate on a single planet. By chance, my tiny kidney stone, wandering aimlessly through space, coalesced with other molecules and eventually grew in such great mass and form as to become a planet, and in our very own solar system! Since Uranus is already taken, I’ll name my future prodigy, Urethra, The Yellow Planet. I like that. They say once you’ve had a kidney stone there’s a very high probability that you’ll have another. I can hardly wait. Michael Vines is a freelance writer who lives in South-Central Kentucky. His "Slice of Life" essays have been published in statewide newspapers and Amazon Kindle ("Ain't Life Peachy")
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