A cat fight!
With several cuts and scrapes — some with stitches — on his face and forearms, that’s what Lynn Rose looked like he had been in when my fellow kindergarten graduates and I spotted him playing volleyball.
However, he had been in a fist fight with an over protective mother raccoon.
Once we picked up Johnny Puskarich for the annual Sunday school picnic, our family traveled up over the hill past the church toward the little village of Beallsville, which straddled the Old National Pike.
After proceeding through the lone traffic light in the heart of the historic district, the automobile veered off onto Martindale Road toward the county park in the little hamlet of Marianna, known as the “Crown Jewel” of the mining industry in its heyday.
When the local pastor drove through the gate of the recreational facility and wildlife preserve, he pulled into an empty space of the nearly full parking lot near the picnic pavilion.
Since the window on the tailgate was fully open, my brother John and I, along with my favorite pal, jumped out of the way-back of the station wagon and joined the other youngsters at the playground equipment.
Scanning the sea of noisy adolescents, who were clustered around the area of the large swing set, the lad of Korean descent and I observed our Sunday school chum Billy Denny coming down the sliding board.
Upon seeing the loser of the Battle Royale playing volleyball with some of the other church members, my neighbor’s grandson and I gave Johnny the lowdown on the particulars of what happened.
A momma raccoon, who had a den of babies in a shallow hole in the ground under the massive evergreen at Billy’s grandmother’s house, had just left to gather food; but our arch-nemesis wouldn’t listen to us.
Not only did he go under the tree ignoring our warnings, Lynn also poked a stick into the ground and tried to get the babies out of the hole; so when the mother came back, she attacked him.
“He is such a putz,” asserted the hilltop resident with a bit of laughter in his voice. “Hopefully, he learned his lesson after fighting with a wild animal.”
Billy grabbed a hold of his buddies arms when several youngsters climbed off the merry-go-round and asked if we wanted to take it for a spin.
As these whippersnappers hopped on the circular chunk of red painted metal, the pastor’s oldest son came running over as Bonnie Denny and Vanessa Rose pushed us around.
As the popular ride picked up speed, the teenage girls warned us to hang on tight so as not to go hurling off into the air like a flying projectile.
At the beginning of the adrenaline-charged adventure, these shavers had both feet against the two yellow bars along the edge of the ride with hands holding the bar above our heads.
Going at full tilt, the freckle-faced lad, a daredevil in his own right, stood upright while defying gravity and performed a somersault flip over the horizontal bar.
These little nippers quickly glanced at one another as we all watched with wonder and amazement as the oldest of the bunch executed the spectacular acrobatic feat.
As if on cue, my two favorite chums simultaneously each stood to their feet and did a back-flip over the top bar on their section of the top-like ride spinning on its axis.
However, when I attempted to stand up to mimic my big brother and best friends, the teenage girls put on the brakes as they brought the ride to a grinding halt.
“Hang on there, Marky,” noted the long blonde-haired lass as she grasped my hand to help me off the ride. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to imitate what your brother just did.”
“I totally agree,” interjected the long brown-haired teen as she patted my brown locks. “With your balance problem, you would fly off into the dirt and gravel.”
“Your parents don’t need to rush you to the hospital today,” she continued knowing all to well what she was talking about. “Believe me, I’ve already been there once this month with my own brother.”
“Well I still had a fun time,” I declared with a broad smile and a gleam in my eyes looking up at the young ladies. “Even if I didn’t get to flip over the bar like everyone else.”
“Besides,” stated the 1971 Bentworth High School graduate as both girls kissed me on opposite cheeks. “You’re much to cute to get that pretty little face of yours messed up.”
“Oh brother,” mentioned Billy as he climbed down off the circular ride behind his Sunday school chum. “Keep away from me with that mushy gushy stuff.”
“Aww… now don’t be jealous,” noted the rising senior at Beth-Center High School as she kissed him on the forehead. “There’s more than enough love to go around little man.”
“Yeah,” declared Johnny as he stepped down off the ride behind his two buddies. “I don’t want you smooching me either. That’s totally grossing me out.”
“No! No! Stop it,” he continued as the teenage girls attacked with several pecks on the cheek. “You girls both have cooties. You’re gonna infect me with them.”
The minister’s firstborn escaped the love-fest before the teenage girls were able to grab a hold of him as he ran off to the swings with some of his other friends.
As these rising first graders clawed our way out of the clutches of the kissing bandits, the girls fell on top of one another laughing hysterically as they attempted to hang on to the little Casanovas.
“Hurry up,” expressed the black-haired lad he freed his ankle from his Aunt Bonnie’s grip. “Let’s blow this taco stand before they have the chance to stand back to their feet.”
“Peace out, home fry,” declared Johnny while flashing the peace sign at the best friends, who were intertwined laying on the ground. “Catch you on the flip side if you’re lucky.”
Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton. If you’re interested in reading the extended version of this story in his novel titled, “Little Church at the Top of the Hill,” just type the title into the Facebook search engine and scroll down to Chapter 15, A Sunday School Picnic.