22 September, 2001 - 20:08 MDT

THE WONDERING JEW

They Called It

When the spirit of adventure seized us kids we would go to another of the forbidden territories to do the same old thing one that had resulted in the deaths of kids before us, just in a different place.

The Platte river runs through Denver. Although it is not a large river in this day and age I expect it was a large and rushing stream in prehistory. It left treasure behind. On one side or another of the river were vast areas of sand and gravel.

Most anything built in this area from roads to buildings used sand and gravel taken from from what were commonly called the sand pits. In my childhood there were many sand pits no longer in use, no machinery left there for the extraction of of sand and gravel, just deep water and most often unfenced.

Fairly often it would be heard from an adult, "I see another damn fool kid got drowned in the sand pit, down by XXXXX," they weren't named but referred to by location.

Sandpits were great places for boys with their macho dares and show off shenanigans. No gradual drop off, just darn deep from the onset. To make it complicated, it was hard to get enough purchase to get out once one was in. So the game of survival was dangerously played out at the sandpits.

I never knew of a boy going singly to the sandpits, usually two or more would go. Sometimes we tried fishing in them, but with no luck. Obviously, when a hole in the ground was started back away from the present watercourse, groundwater from the river would filter into the hole and the darn fish just wouldn't swim from the river through dirt. But there was always hope that magically, a fish was there to be caught and the one with the pole, line and hook would snag it.

Often clothes would be left off and we would skinny dip or just wear our underwear. In our bunch there were usually two kids who would stay out of the water for safety, carrying an old cotton clothes line rope for life saving. Huh, usually the rope was old and weak, but we felt the mental assurance that it would help us get out if it was needed.

Each pit had its own unique surroundings varying but little. Down there the thing was the terror of deep water and the difficulty of getting back out. And we just ate it up, performing what could be called a contest against self, somewhat like golf only the water hazard was a dilly, but still a testing of self.

Eventually the time to return home would come, we never got tired and left but went when we knew an appearance at our homes was required.

After a close call for one of us it would usually be awhile before the memory would dim enough and we intrepid adventurers would once again thrill ourselves at the sandpits.

Looking back down the years I realize how utterly stupid it was, but when stupidity was in competition with dangerous activity it is usually the danger that overcomes good sense.

I look back fondly at the fun we had at the sandpit, but now realize why an attractive nuisance was what They Called It . . . . . . .

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