Another Person's Shared Memory #2

So we've had that first warm day, that first "windows-down-in-the-car-Beach-Boys-on-the-radio" day, and I have a memory that's not mine.  It's of two teenaged boys, throwing a frisbee at the drive-in, at Bummie's, the cool hang-out in my small hometown. 

Bummie's has been there as long as I can remember--a drive-in restaurant that can house probably 12-14 cars under the awning, and another 15 in the overflow.  A small cook-shack, always needing paint, the awning poles knicked and scraped from decades of automobiles pulling in and out.  An extensive menu for the little hole-in-the-wall place that it is:  Spanish dogs, Swamp Water, Bummieburgers, and root beer in thick chilled mugs.  Milk shakes with paper straws that collapsed before you finished the drink, and fat-fat fries.  Yum.  Bummie's--the taste of my teen years.  Learning to park between the narrow poles that support the awning is a rite of passage in Bluffton, getting the car-hop's attention by flashing your lights, knowing just how high to raise your lowered window to accommodate the tray hooked over the edge.  It's the south turn-around on the cruising circuit, and the place where Bluffton-born newlyweds drive through after the ceremony, honking their horns and dragging tin cans.

And it's one of those days, those first warm days of spring before we all shut the doors and turn on the air conditioning.  The first day of shorts, and short sleeves, a day for the ages--and the two boys are in their glory, out to see and be seen, tossing that frisbee, in a celebration of youth and renewal and spring and life.  All smiles and laughter.  Tossing and catching, tossing and catching, with ease and precision. 

And suddenly, the frisbee goes awry.  Whoops.  A false flip of the wrist sends it towards the cars of families eating, unsuspecting families, not expecting a frisbee to suddenly fly through the window, and knock over one of the freshly poured, chilled root beers perched on the tray in the window and into the lap of the driver.  Surprise, then profanity, and a refusal to surrender the offending frisbee. 

The boys are contrite, apologetic, desperately concealing grins.  Their frisbee confiscated, the fun over--but a chuckle-inducing memory for decades to come.

Long live Bummie's.  Long live frisbees.  Long live spring.  Long live youth.