The Great Bluff Street Sled Race: And Other Adventures

By Robert L. Moore

From a catastrophic sled race, through a hilarious dance recital, and on to the adventures of a benevolent roadie and her friendsto mention but three of its short storiesThe Great Bluff Street Sled Race and other adventures describes unforgettable events in the lives of ordinary people. While not all the stories are of the humor genre, they remind us, in many ways, of how to live, laugh and care.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 9, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465326546

Robert L. Moore

Robert L. “Bob” Moore was born in Boulder, Colorado, where he attended school, including the University of Colorado, from which he graduated in 1961 with a BA in English Literature. Before college, he served four years in the U.S. Air Force, three of which were spent in Europe. After college, he began a career in copywriting and advertising, retiring in 1992. He credits reading at an early age and encouragement from teachers for his interest in creative writing, which was put somewhat on hold during his working years. “With deadlines looming, writing everything required for your job for five or more days a week is exhausting. Except for notes about story ideas, I didn’t write much for myself.” After retiring, Bob was able to gather his notes and ideas, and—except for interruptions caused by “the muse that flies away,” as he puts it—he was able to resume creative writing. Bob has two daughters, Maela and Shauna, and a cat named Tuesday. He resides in Wichita, Kansas.

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Copyright © 2009 by Robert L. Moore.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THE GREAT BLUFF STREET SLED RACE

DON’T LAUGH AT THE DANCERS

THE MOTOR ROUTE

THE HOT CHOCOLATE LADY

DANCING IN THE COBWEB LIGHT

ELLIE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank all of the zany kids I grew up with on Bluff Street in Boulder, Colorado. I hope all of you have great memories of our time together in what was then a sleepy mountain town with a lot of open space to play in and snowy hillsides to sled down.

Special thanks to young artist Mahalia Mae Porter, a student at New Vista High School in Boulder when she created the original illustrations for the cover of this book, and to her art teacher Faith Stone for her guidance and support of Mae’s work on this project.

Most of all, thank you to my two beautiful and intelligent daughters, Shauna and Maela, of whom I could not be more proud. I appreciate the love and support you have shown to me all of these years and especially during my work on this collection of stories. I love you both with all of my heart.

-Bob Moore

December 2008

THE GREAT BLUFF STREET SLED RACE

Most people think the sled race was my idea; a few others think it was Nancy’s. Some blamed both of us. But if Screwy Louie hadn’t messed with us, it never would have happened.

Louie was the sledding guard on our street that year. Every winter, the recreation folks in our small town in the Rocky Mountains hired boys from the high school to watch over the sledding streets. When it snowed a lot, key intersections were readied with long sawhorses and fifty-gallon warming barrels, and on Friday evenings and weekends the streets were blocked, and there was massive sledding mayhem in hilly neighborhoods all over town.

I met my sixth-grade pals at the Bluff Street barrel every chance I got. My best friend was Donny Doo-Dah. He was a smiling blond kid, and he was fearless. Once, when he and I were playing hooky, he jumped on the back of a wild Shetland pony, which then raced immediately for the edge of a creek . . . and stopped. Donny went flying into the water headfirst. When he climbed out, he sat on his rump, wiped his face, and laughed himself silly.

Then there was Freddie Spaghetti. He was a happy husky Italian kid with coal black hair and big dark eyes. Lots of girls were totally gaga over him.

Next was Bobby Baloney, a shy skinny little Irish guy who liked words and gave us all nicknames, including me. I was called Jerry the Jerk, because I liked to play jokes on people. Well, that’s what he said.

Anyway, dressed in our snow boots, jeans, heavy coats, and warm gloves—with Donny and me in our aviator caps and goggles—we would meet at the barrel with our sturdy Flexible Flyers, warm our hands over the fire, then pull our sleds to the top of the steep, rutted, unpaved part of Bluff, where it was a dead-end street. Then time after time, we’d lie on our sleds, push off, and fly down the half block past the guard intersection, then the full block all the way to the sawhorses at the crossing street far below.

Nancy was a newcomer to our neighborhood and the last to join our group. I first saw her one warm Sunday afternoon. Bobby and I had just sledded to the bottom of the hill, when this pretty girl glided to a stop, got off her sled, and slipped, plopping seat-first into a deep puddle of slush. When she got up, her behind was soaking wet.

Who’s that? I said to Bobby.

Who? he answered, pretending he didn’t know what I was talking about.

That girl, you dummy!

Oh, he said, you mean the one with the long red hair and the big green eyes?

Yes! The one with the wet pants!

Well, he said, if you’re talking about her, I know her name.

What is it?

Nancy Sprinklebottom, he said, with that shy, sly, proud toothy grin he wore whenever he had just invented a new, especially outrageous nickname.

What? I repeated.

Nancy Sprinklebottom.

Her name really was Nancy, but Sprinklebottom it was not.

Anyway, the moniker stuck,