Those Were the Days

Interstate 15 runs about five miles to the east of Snake River High School, where I proudly graduated first out of the bottom 0.5% of my class.  Unfortunately the Interstate actually runs through Blackfoot, Idaho which was also one of our main sources of entertainment.  The Interstate, I mean, not Blackfoot.  Why do I have such a disdain for Blackfoot?  No reason, I just like to hate on it.

Back in my rebellious days I, and a few of my close friends, made an excursion to I-15, Exit 93, which was our closest access point to Idaho’s only contiguous connection with southern California.  Coincidentally, 1993 was also the year that I graduated, which is why a picture of the sign for Exit 93 is prominently portrayed on the cover of my senior yearbook.  It’s also why the actual Exit 93 sign is probably collecting dust somewhere inside of Blackfoot High School, because they don’t teach photography or honesty there.  Oh wait, they probably do teach photography.  

Exit 93 really looks more like a park than a traffic way.  It has nice green lawns with evergreens and a lovely slope up to the freeway.  Perfect for ice blocking, which is what we went there to do.  Now most people, including myself, upon seeing a rowdy group of teenagers on the side of the freeway, would probably assume that they were up to no good.  That’s because most people, including myself, are too judgmental.  We were simply there to have some good clean fun, a few feet away from large trucks moving at a high rate of speed.  

Nobody was hurt, except that I got "accidentally" shoved into a roadside reflector by one of my friends.  This is the same friend who a few years ago caught me in the shin with a wickedly slicing second shot on the ninth fairway.  Somehow he managed to send the ball on an 18 inch high trajectory about 30 yards directly behind him.  Well, maybe not directly behind him but I was definitely outside of his peripheral vision.  There I go, off the topic again.

With my group of friends, our fun often started out at the same shady hang out.  Shady, because of the big Elm trees, it was actually the seminary teacher’s house across the street from the church.  We never really had a desire for real mischief.  The hardest stuff I ever drank was a Jolt Cola, “all the sugar and twice the caffeine” and I have thankfully never had one since.  We mostly played party games or tag and if our outings ended up at the same shady hangout then we would often end the affair by sitting in the living room eating cookies and drinking freshly squeezed cow juice.

Those were good, good times and I wouldn’t change any of it.  Except maybe that time with the ATV’s and the cow pasture, but even that turned out okay.  There has never been a more sober or fun-loving group of characters than those that I was privileged to be a part of.  

We even took the occasional opportunity to scare the whits out of ourselves.  One of our favorite spooky spots was Tilden Bridge.  With the help of some cleverly modified Indian legends we could put ourselves into such a panic that even the slightest sound would bring on fits of hysterics.  At least I assume it would have if I'd ever gotten out of the car.  Hey, somebody had to stay with the vehicle...with the doors locked...in case there was a car thief out there in the middle of nowhere.  You never know.  Again, nobody was hurt and the stories were only marginally scary.  They probably wouldn't even muster a PG rating.

I'll bet there are other stories that I have forgotten, I wish somebody would write those down somewhere.  I only hope my kids will find such a group of friends.  I'll even be happy to provide them with shin guards.