Bobby and Beverly were twins, a few years older than I was. They lived in a large Victorian house at the end of our street. Because of the age difference, I seldom played with them, but often joined some of the other kids who lived nearby to play in the empty lot behind their house. Beverly was a friendly girl and sometimes invited us into the house or shaded grape arbor along the south side if the old-fashioned kitchen. By early September, the arbor, while refreshingly cool on a hot day, was nevertheless a bit creepy, being populated by Daddy-Long-Legs and other skittering things that might drop on one’s head at any time. And, when the grapes were ripe, we were invited to help ourselves.

Inside, the house was gloomy with dark woodwork and heavily patterned wallpaper. A huge grandfather clock sat in the hall near the front door, opposite an ornately carved hat rack with a tall mirror and low storage drawer that I visualized as serving as a convenient seat for changing winter boots. The clock struck on the quarter hour, echoing loudly throughout the house and I could imagine its merciless late night announcements repeatedly waking the house’s residents.

Across the street, lived Burl Reynolds who was the twins’ age, and next door to them was Jackie who was my age and shared both his tree-house and a case of mumps with me one summer. Behind the house and what must have once been a lawn or garden, The Hill sloped sharply down to the next street. It had no trees and little other greenery besides weeds but held a number of things such as salvaged building materials, broken furniture and several empty, rusted barrels that all suggested barrel-walking and new games to invent. A collection of children of many ages, with a few self-confident and adventuresome young teens, can come up with a hair-raising number of bizarre and dangerous things to do on a Saturday afternoon.

My older sister Dorothy envisioned an amusement park akin to Riverside Park in Des Moines, where our dad took us at least once a year in lieu of the, sometimes tawdry, itinerant carnivals that made their rounds every summer. We couldn’t build such an ambitious facility in just one afternoon, but Dorothy had an idea for one “ride” that we could create almost instantly.
She called it The Barrel Roll and convinced me that it would be an honor to volunteer to be the test pilot. One of the empty barrels was upended, banged to loosen some of the rust clinging to its insides, and fitted with a rectangle of old carpet. The theory was that gravity would keep the carpet at the lowest point in the barrel as it rolled down the hill, and gravity would keep the passenger (me) safely on the carpet as the barrel rolled and the carpet slid around inside. A passenger-less test drive showed that the carpet did slide as predicted, but the barrel veered gradually to the side as it followed the curvature of the hill, so to keep it going straight, a double row of the old bricks was laid to keep it on track. More bricks were piled at the bottom, forming a barrier it was assumed would stop the barrel from charging over the retaining wall and flying into the street. Two strong boys were stationed near the bottom to catch the plummeting barrel if the barricade failed to slow it to a standstill.

A final test run showed that the brick rails kept the barrel on track, the piled bricks brought it to a near-standstill and the two strongmen triumphantly brought it to a dead stop. It was time for the test pilot. I climbed into my cockpit, crouched over my knees on the piece of carpet, tucked my arms close to my sides and confidently announced I was ready for take-off.

Dorothy gave the barrel a mighty shove. My carpet failed to slide. My barrel veered to the side before reaching the brick-lined track and bounced several times before crashing into a heap of old lumber and window shutters. I was pulled out of the barrel, covered with rust, dirt and bloody scrapes, too shaken and tearful to speak. Dorothy said, “Next time, wear long sleeves and slacks. You should have known better.” Oh yeah – I should have known better – better than to “volunteer.”