Flavored Dust and Fool’s Luck

My childhood was 20 percent Kool-Aid and 80 percent unsupervised danger, and I’m not sure if I turned out all right or if I’m just too old to notice the damage.

We made Kool-Aid with the sort of scientific precision that would make a lab technician twitch. First, dump a packet—usually red, never grape—into the largest plastic pitcher we had. Then, pour in a mound of sugar that could’ve doubled as a sand dune. The instructions called for a cup, but in our kitchen, a “cup” was a loose suggestion, like “maybe don’t stick that fork in the outlet.”

Stir it with whatever was closest: a butter knife, a wooden spoon, sometimes your hand. We drank it warm if we were in a hurry, and we were always in a hurry.

The danger part? Well, that was just the rest of the day.

We rode our bikes without helmets, pedal brakes, and zero awareness. Our bikes rattled as if held together by bubble gum and a prayer.

We built ramps out of scrap plywood and whatever bricks we could liberate from someone’s yard—sorry, Mrs. Keating—and we’d launch ourselves into the air like Evel Knievel without a backup plan. Landing was optional. Stitches weren’t.

There was an old field across from our house full of high grass, and that was our kingdom. We built forts out of rotting boards and rusted nails–that we straightened with creek rocks.

One summer, we found a sun-bleached refrigerator someone had dumped in the creek bed. Naturally, we turned it into a time machine.

My brother climbed inside and shut the door, and it was only later—much later, when Mom got wind of it and nearly fainted—that we learned old refrigerators don’t open from the inside.

He was fine. Hot, sweaty, and convinced he’d traveled three weeks into the future, but fine.

Our parents, bless’em, operated under the “If I don’t hear screaming, they’re probably okay” policy of supervision.

We came home when the streetlights buzzed on, covered in dirt, scabs, and the sticky film of cherry Kool-Aid that stained our lips like clown makeup. You couldn’t wash that stuff off; you had to live through it until it faded naturally, like a bad decision.

I once tried to make fireworks. A few strike-anywhere matches, a toilet paper tube, and “some kind of powder” from the garage. It didn’t explode, but it did catch fire and burned a hole in Dad’s workbench. I blamed the neighbor kid, who wasn’t even there, and got grounded anyway.

Looking back, I realize childhood was less about safety and more about pure dumb luck. We survived on instinct and the grace of distracted angels.

We didn’t wear sunscreen, seatbelts, or sense. We drank from hoses, got chased by hornets, and played hide-and-seek in the dark like we had a death wish.

But man, Kool-Aid never tasted better than it did on a day like that. So, if you ever wonder why I flinch at the sound of fireworks or why I keep Band-Aids in every drawer of the house, it’s because I had a childhood that was sugar water and “What were you thinking?”

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade a single scab.