by Kevin Porter

Created on: February 10, 2009   Last Updated: April 30, 2009

Thanksgiving Brakes:

Come mentally meandering along with me. Adhere to my words as images form for your mind's eye to see. Sit back, relax and aspire to an existence within my memoir for to be. In the late afternoon of the very day school recessed for Thanksgiving Vacation and the year is 1974. It is a frostily frigid November in Spokane and its snowfalls have blanketed the city already, a foot deep, with their glistening accumulated presents. Snowplows have cleared the pesky white stuff from all of the main roads and luckily there is no new snow forecast for tonight. Sitting behind the wheel of my father's red 1967 Ford Mustang, which boasts a roof covered with a decorative sheet of black vinyl, I feel I am the coolest kid in town.

Parked in my driveway with the motor running, my best friend and I await the arrival of two of our friends. My best friend accompanied me home from school, as he often does, and his parents know we are planning on going for a ride. I already got permission to use my father's car a couple of days ago. A minute or two is all we wait though before our friends come walking up the driveway, a little past five. In the company of our friends comes this kid I have never seen before. Our friends come over to the driver's window and they bring that stranger of a kid with them. One of them knocks on the glass and I roll down the window. I am briefly introduced to the unknown kid and thus acquire a brand-new acquaintance. Along with the introduction I am asked if he can come along on the ride. The kid definitely looks cool to me because his hair hangs, just like mine does, several inches down past the shoulders and so I say, "OK." I open the door, get out, fold the driver's seat forward and let them all climb in to the backseat. With the five of us sitting comfortably I pull out of the driveway and start off down East Thirty-fifth Avenue, my snow-packed and thus snow-jogging capable side street.

Ah, snow-jogging what a wonderful pastime and I sure do miss it a lot. It is quite a simple enough sport for all one needs is a snow-packed street and a car with a driver that is willing to play along. Just grab hold of the car's back bumper and slide along behind it as the car goes on its way but make sure to watch out for high-friction spots in the road. High-friction spots, such as steaming manhole covers, will put an immediate end to the sliding and therefore can cause serious injury. A kid I knew from Wisconsin called this activity sliding while a

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