by Mitch Lee
Gerry Rafferty’s song, Baker Street, was oozing from a convertible parked outside the Inlet Laundromat as I pedalled past on my bike on the way home from ball practice.
The early August afternoon breeze felt good against my face as I turned the corner to Limekiln Road.
I dropped my bike in the ditch next to the golf course so I could hunt for golf balls in the underbrush.
I snagged about 20 balls and stuffed them into every pocket of my cut-off jean shorts.
Then, I hopped aboard my bike and once again made my way up the road.
When I started to climb the familiar steep hill the canopy of trees shaded me from the heat.
The golf balls bulging from my pockets pressed against my thighs and made it difficult to pedal, so I hopped off and pushed the bike before I made it to the summit.
I had been collecting cans from the edge of the road for quite a while.
My plan was to use them as targets and chuck them with golf balls.
I scanned the ditch for fresh targets but found none, so I boarded my bike and cruised downhill towards the lake.
When I got back home I stuffed my old Army rucksack with about 20 old soda and beer cans and made my way out into the woods behind the house towards a group of rock ledges.
I built a pyramid of cans and paced back 30 steps to unload the pile of ammunition at my feet.
The sound of crushing cans and careening golf balls was the sweetest sound I heard that morning.
I continued until my arm was almost too sore to move and all the cans were so crushed they could no longer stand up.
I gathered the spent ammunition and cans into my bag and sat on a slab of stone that protruded out from the face of the wall.
I leaned back against the cool surface of the rock.
I looked up through the canopy of Maple and Beech leaves to see bits and pieces of clouds.
With my arm rested and feeling a bit better, I sat up and listened to a scolding chipmunk and to the sounds of the boat motors down towards the lake.
I hiked back out of the woods into a clearing where I found the air to be crisp and still.
The afternoon seemed just right for some fishing, hiking or just snooping around.
—
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller,
lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com