On the Skids

On the skids with no brakes, thankfully, a memory; that began with falling, falling over and over again, with bruises that healed; such is childhood. I tried to attack the slippery slope, challenged by youtube videos that I could wisely imbibe; teenager at heart was I… to fall flat, flatter than a pancake. As this was a few years back, still a Big-Mac Grandmother; a smucker-grape hugger. Bigger than life; life was bigger than me. Who was I to inspire? I lit my bum on fire. Who am I to think that each one was like the other? Those grand-girls flew past me, in blurs. The youngest boy, now ten, screamed until I relinquished, took off those skates then circled the rink as I chased him down. His elder brother, held on for dear life, just wouldn’t let go of the skate mate; but I am old, or so I am told. I grew up when no helmet was required, where seat belts were optional; free to choose, “I will survive.” So, do I think today’s kids are wimps? I’ve joined the ranks of wimpiness; it is the key to living longer. By the way, the kid won’t climb a tree. He sees each and every bug. Were they there when I was young?