Well, OK. But here's the thing, if you don't want to read a boring child's memory, skip this....
I was probably about 5 years old. My family as well as my Aunt, Uncle and various collection of cousins, all took a Summer vacation down to the Morongo Valley in the Southern Californian desert. We had relatives that lived there. As of this point in my life, I still don't know how they fit into our convoluted family tree, but we were off to spend a week in the desert. I had been there before, so they tell me, but when you're five, even the third year is ancient history.
This is desert. Flat, barren, desolate. Everything there looks like it's in a state of shock. Trees stand there as if God had played a cruel joke on them. Houses, even the new ones, look like a roast that's been left in the oven too long. You could fry a 350cc motor on the sidewalk; in the shade.
And there are tumbleweeds.
Now, I thought myself a pretty smart kid. I had seen tumbleweeds before. There was one particular documentary I watched that had plenty of tumbleweeds on scene. It starred, if I remember, Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam. The Road Runner wildlife show usually sported many tumbleweeds as well. I was very familiar with the iconic tumbleweed.
So, there I was, the knowledgeable five year old, standing outside of my relatives house. There was a garden there, as I remember, that was full of various cacti, rocks and lizards. They called this a garden, though, in truth, it looked much like the terrain on the other side of the fence. For about two hundred miles in any direction. I know it was a garden because I was told, on countless occasions, that it was not a place for my Tonka truck excavation company.
Whatever.
The sun had set, so the temperature had dipped from Inferno to Blistering. I was wearing the uniform of the day which was a t-shirt, a pair of shorts and some flip-flops. In the failing light, through the rising convection currents coming off of the molten pavement, I saw this bouncing ball looking item making its way down the street. As it got closer, it became obvious to my learned mind that I was seeing, for the first time, an actual tumbleweed.
I cannot describe my excitement. A tumbleweed. An actual tumbleweed... tumbling. Right. Towards. Me.
We didn't have tumbleweeds where I grew up in the Redwoods in the Santa Cruz mountains. I had never laid eyes on a tumbleweed in real life. Nor, might I add, had any of my friends.
Imagine the impending glory that I would have when I would be able to tell my friends during recess that I saw an actual tumbleweed. Me! Exultant praise from all my classmates! Even Holly Arnesen! I would gloat in my newfound fame!
Wait! Better yet! What heights of status could I achieve if I were to... wait for it... CATCH a tumbleweed?! If, like some brave cowboy, I were to "rassle" a tumbleweed into submission? I would be KING OF THE TUMBLEWEEDS!
Sidenote: A tumbleweed is actually a bush, usually a sage bush, that has dried up and broken free from it root structure. This shrub, now free from the anchor of root ball, is caught up in the dry, hot breezes of the desert. As this ball of brush rolls across the desert floor, it changes from random desert detritus to a tumbleweed. The friction of rolling along does two major things: 1. It forms that ball-like shape that eases its velocity and, 2. as the brush rolls along the harden ground and/or the pavements, it literally sharpens the smaller branches of the brush that are exposed along the surface of the tumbleweed. No, really. Sharpens. Like poniards or a ball of razor wire.
Back to our story. In a flash, I decide that going out and grabbing this rolling desert icon is a stroke of genius. Doing the extraordinary is what makes a person. This could be my defining moment.
In the street. I line up. The hot desert wind in my face. The tumbleweed rolling inexorably along, unhurried, but determined to get to its Point B of destiny. I adjust my position so that I can be assured of success. In the distance, I hear my cousin, Robbie, shouting something, but I don't pay attention: I'm in a zone.
Five feet away. Three... Only twelve inches to my ultimate glory.
Then contact is made.
Ever look at velcro? I mean, really look at it? There is one side, full of prickly spears and then the other side is soft. The two come in contact and, for all intents and purposes, they become inseparable.
What you DON'T see in velcro is the unimaginable pain.
OK, so from about my knees to my chin, and every square inch of skin of the front half of my little body was now attached to this demonic tumbleweed. I. Could. Not. Move.
Seriously, I was paralyzed in pain. If I tried to move, a hundred thousand points of evil tried to dig in deeper into my skin. My cousin, after he recovered from his convulsions of laughter, ran in and retrieved my Mom and my Aunt. After THEY were done with their fits of laughing, they began the two hour long procedure of separating the newly formed TumbleKid.
I know, even now, in my heart, that my blood brother, the Tumbleweed, still roams free across the Morongo Valley, wondering what the heck happened that lone night, 41 years ago.
and a few dogs).
