Every boy dreams of his first wheelbarrow. Right? From the moment we set eyes on that hot cherry red number down at the hardware store when I was 6, it becomes an obsession. We all wanted one for Christmas; we all thumbed through dogeared Sears catalogs circling and crossing out and then re-circling the perfect model; we all practiced our skills on that rusty, flat-tired relic out in the shed. At birthday parties, we'd choke down our envy when friends or classmates received their first beginner's barrow before me. Lucky jerks didn't know how good they had it.
It is the object of every generations' desire. What boy doesn't remember long nights at sleepovers? Taking turns with our pals describing my platonic wheelbarrow, its many features. Asking the important questions like: ash handles or steel? 6 cubic foot or something non-standard? What do you think of those fancy two-wheeled monsters, gimmicky or gotta-have? At dawn's break, our heads full of wanting, we'd finally doze off sharing dreams of The One.
We saved up, of course, all us boys. We saved my hard-earned chore money; we peddled odd-jobs; we sold lemonade; we scoured the couch and laundry room for coins. On weekends, we'd beg our parents for a ride to the hardware store, to drool over those floor models. Six months, we figured, maybe a year, until I'd saved enough to buy one. We circled a date on the calendar.
And then, somewhere along the way, that plink plink plink of carefully counted and recounted change faded away, and our dreams of wheelbarrows-to-come trundled along the way of most childhood dreams … and I grew up. Us boys forgot about those mighty backyard wagons and focused instead on girls and school and baseball and cars and pogs (there's no use denying it) and guitars and girls and taxes and houses and girls and kids and investment accounts and dietary restrictions.
Buried beneath it all, somewhere, was that waylaid wonder of the wheelbarrow.
Buried, but unearthed, at long last, today. Lest we overlook the many freedoms of adulthood for its many burdens, allow me to present Fencebroke's newest member—his strength is legendary, his temper (though surly) is true, he has a solid-core, never-flat tire and freaking steel handles. He is called Fireox, The Beastbarrow … and he is mine.
|All hail Fireox!|