From the Desk of The DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank

We lived in the country growing up in the ’70s.  To live in the country back then was much different than it is today, much different.  Besides there being no cell phones, only three TV stations, very few security lights, there was almost no traffic.  We learned as boys to drive a 3 on the column pick up as soon as we could push the clutch to the floor, but not for fun, no sir.  Boys out in our area were expected to pitch in on the farm, so we were hauling hay, hauling feed, seed, or fertilizer to the fields and learning to drive the old farm trucks kept the older guys, fathers, and grandfathers out operating the tractors.

But I would be lying if I led you to believe that it was all work.  Gas was cheap and we would rack the roads in the evening and at night.  We explored the area and stretched the limits of our boundaries, though there was very little mischief to get into.  By the time we reached 13 years old, things, as you might expect, began to change.

Johnny, my twin brother, Jeff, one of our best friends, and I would load the truck with supplies and hit the roads and find a place to camp.  Not at the campgrounds like they have with a cement pad, a picnic table, and a grill, but deep in the woods near an old dilapidated house or in the dead center of a big field with nothing but the sky above.  In our exploration of the 25-30 mile radius from home, we found lots of interesting things but felt like we had uncovered a gold mine when we found an old set of bedsprings.  When plans were made for a campout, we would throw the springs on the back of the truck along with a couple of 2×4’s and a foam mattress and off we would go. We would ride around and select a good spot and just leave the road.  Once stopped, we would put the boards across the bed of the pickup and put the springs and mattress on top and that was our bed for the night.  Outfitted with enough chips and candy bars and soft drinks to feed 10 teenagers, our main vocation once situated was to talk for hours about what it was going to be like to be 15, licensed to drive, but most of all, what it was going to be like to be 15, licensed to drive, and courting the girls.  You see, to be male of the species and 13 years old, meaning that you were trapped in a freakish wasteland and NOBODY told you what to do, what to expect, or how the world saw you.  Something was going on with our voices, hair had appeared in places where hair hadn’t been before, and generally, stuff was going on internally that we knew nothing about, but it generally made us act like idiots.  The greatest mystery to a 13-year-old male in 1977 though, was the girls. The girls that were our age were beginning to attract the attention of the guys 3 – 4 years older than us.  The girls older than us had their sights on guys 3 – 4 years older than them.  But the girls 3 – 4 years younger than us, well, even with hormones raging about, that was just not a consideration.  So all we had was our friendships and our plans, lots of plans.

Simultaneously, back in the ’70s, there was a phenomenon that cropped up across the country that truly defies reasonable explanation.  The Phenomenon to which I am referring is the act of “streaking.”  All across this nation people were disrobing and running around naked in public.  The activity was immortalized by the hilarious song, The Streak, by comedian singer Ray Stevens.

It was on one of these campouts where we had turned off a backroad and were probably no more than 100 yards off the road where we stopped and set up the bedsprings.  We had the radio playing and were having our normal discussions about the girls and such, and one of us mentioned that there had been more traffic on the road than we normally encounter.  We were far enough off the road that the old 1978 Chevy couldn’t be seen, but we were always watching in case some farmer showed up asking questions and such.  The song about streaking came on and I suggested to Jeff that we go streaking up the road.  He agreed and in an instant, I jumped off the truck and acted like I was taking off my pants and I took off running up the hill.  Jeff was yelling at me to wait and I was imploring him to hurry up, that I thought I heard another car coming and I wanted to jump out of the ditch and go streaking toward an oncoming car.  I ran up the hill and stopped as if waiting for him to catch up.  Shortly, here he came, wearing nothing but tennis shoes.  I was like jogging in place for effect and beckoning him to come on so that we could get set up before the car came.  The night was a little overcast with cloud cover so even though the moon was almost full, there was some cloud cover that made it darker than usual.  By this time, I had made it up the hill to the road and had run 15 yards or so toward where the area where the car would be shortly.  He ran up to where I was and he said, “Man, you are dark all over.”  He closed the distance between us a few feet more and said, “You are dark, you’ve got clothes on!

I was standing there, as the car rounded the curve in our direction, and the headlights flashed towards us, we hauled ass back toward the truck.  I couldn’t run fast enough for laughing, his naked butt shining in the moonlight.

I wonder tonight as I write this if Jeff remembers the cruel joke I played on him.  I can say this; I have broken out in laughter several times as I try to tell this story in such a way to give you the mental picture of what really happened.