Recent summer days here in Kentucky have been a string of hot, hot, and muggy 80 to 90 degree ovens. Having baked a bit today, my mind drifted back to those winter school days when enough snow would fall leaving one free to produce those "snow angles" and "snow men", and a good snow ball fight when the neighborhood gang got going.
During these days, there was a special place just right for throwing snow balls at passing cars. It was located at the north end of Vine Street where a cinder-block foundation once stood. At one end it was about six feet high tapering down gradually some 10 feet away to a two block stack. The wall ran parallel to Washington Street where cars would travel east and west having to slow their speed due to the snow. One could hide behind the six feet part, and when a car passed you could move down the wall as needed to let fly that well packed ball of ice.
On this particular snow day, solo flight was in order, and I was alone with several of those expertly prepared vehicles of ice. A black 54 Ford appeared heading west. Hum...a perfect target it was. Now it took a certain amount of skill to time the release based upon the speed of the car, the height of the wall you had reached, and the projected angle of impact. The car heading west was also an advantage since its back side would be more exposed as one moved down the wall. Well here goes.
The snow ball arrived as planned, but little did I know that the back side window was opened. Right through the back window it went. What a perfect pitch it was. Enjoying this moment came suddenly to an end when the 54 Ford stopped and a well built man exited his vehicle. Where did that come from and boy is he going to get it seemed to be his objective.
RUN...I thought...RUN...but where? My oversized rubber snow boots did not help a lot, and in a short period of time I was discovered and caught still holding one of those tightly packed balls of snow.
My memory fails me here, and I do not exactly recall the events which followed. Still alive and breathing I must have talked my way around this big fella's hands... or, more likely he must have felt this puny little guy certainly could not have thrown such a strike as received through his back window. Be that as it may, I remember that perfect pitch.