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My thighs were invincible from riding the 20ft tall, 73° angle “slide” that was heated by the heat of a thousand suns through a hole in the ozone layer.
Somewhere there’s a slide with accumulations like a cast iron skillet, one that has tasted you and your friends. 😐
Kids today. 🙄 Our elementary school playground was fabricated by Medieval iron mongers. And when you fell off, the gravel was the rough stuff, like $50 for a dump truck full.
And the rough gravel was at the bottom of the puddle of stagnant rainwater that had been there long enough to spawn new life.
I remember my sister and me tossing the middle buckle back and forth and then swinging it at each other until one of us got hit by a plastic-accented mace and then we would both cry. We never learned to stop doing that.
I can “hear” that buckle
I can smell that interior after a decade in the sun.
The click was really satisfying.
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I once flew to the dash.
Good times.
