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I lived in Yonkers, NY until my freshman year of high school. In many ways, I had more independence during those days than I did once my then-separated parents reconciled and we moved to Vermont in the summer of 1985.
My mom worked all the time to support the two of us in our own apartment after she and my father split up and all I had to do was check in with my neighbor to let her know I was ok and I had a few hours to myself. I was about 11 or 12, I think.
I could ride my bike around town, walk down Tuckahoe Road to get pizza and play my favorite video game, Karate Champ, at Ponza’s or pick up a grape Slush Puppie a few doors down at the Deli (I can’t remember the name for the life of me–we always just called it the Deli. But, I do remember that the owner and the staff loved “the cute red-headed girl” who’d come in and give me extra treats once in a while.)
My apartment complex had two courtyards of three buildings surrounding a small grassy area which had cement sidewalks circling around it. My friends and I would get yelled at to stay off the grass, often in languages we didn’t understand but had enough common sense to know the words weren’t something we should repeat, even if we could. That didn’t stop us from trying anyway.
We had a playground we to enjoy, but the concrete playpen could only contain our energy for so long. The swings would break, the metal slide would scorch our legs on hot summer days and we’d have to stop playing wiffleball or kickball if one of us sent a ball sailing in the parking lot over the right side fence because none of us could go over there to get the ball.
Eventually we’d find our own ways to have fun.
A large hill sloped down behind the two complexes and covered by concrete or pavement. We’d ride our Big Wheels or go down on our roller skates all the time. If we couldn’t slow down in time, a fence around the playground would be our crash wall. Miraculously, I can’t remember a single serious injury from any of these adventures.
One day, though, we saw the apartment’s superintendent pushing around our version of the Holy Grail: a flatbed hand truck with a piece of plywood over the top.
He’d move equipment around with it and we’d sit there and think of all the ways we could have fun with it, especially on that hill. He’d always lock it up in his storage area, though.
Until one day he left it in the parking garage, thinking no one would notice it there.
He didn’t know we had scouts covering the entire area.
When we saw him pull out of the driveway with his truck, we raced into the garage to grab the cart and push it out the side door closest to the hill. Unfortunately, that door only came out at the half way point and pushing it up the rest of the way was a pain in the ass. Still, we would not be swayed.
Eventually, a group of us (me and about 4 or 5 guys–what, I was a tomboy!) climbed aboard and pointed the handle side down the hill. One of the guys thought it would be safest to have the metal bars in front of us if we crashed. Brilliant.
We looked down the slope and noted the concrete stairs leading down into a storage area. It was about a 10 foot drop total. Rising above that staircase was a set of metal stairs leading up to one of the laundry rooms.
“Just steer away from them,” one of us said. Like we had actual steering on this joyride.
Finally, two of the guys climbed off the back of the cart and did their best impression of an Olympic bobsled team by giving us a running start and then scrambling back on board.
I don’t remember a lot about the trip down, except that it went a hell of a lot faster than I thought it would and was so bouncy that I almost got thrown off more than once. I do recall seeing the metal fence getting larger in front of us pretty damn quick and I shouted “LEAN!”
Ultimately, I think we did our best Flintstones impression and put our feet down to slow it to a stop. Road rash on our ankles and calfs=not fun.
I don’t think we noticed right away, because we immediately began pushing the cart up the long hill for round two.
We managed to get a few more rides in before someone in the apartments overlooking the hill ratted us out to the super, who had come back without us knowing it.
We were going to put it back. We just didn’t get the chance. Honest.
We did make a lot of our own fun back then. I know I sound like my grandparents and parents who would say “When I was your age, we didn’t have those fancy handheld games or 25 tv stations to keep us entertained.”
The thing is, even with all those tv channels and the amazing devices we have now, most of the time, I can’t remember what I did yesterday or the day before.
But, after 30 years, I can still remember how every bump felt on that ride down our “roller coaster” hill that sunny summer day.
Good times. 
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