A short story about our gang of four as youngsters in 1957:

THE GREAT POND DISASTER OF 1957

As a five-year-old in 1957 . . . I should have learned two things: never follow my impish four-year-old friend Jack anywhere, and never underestimate my seven-year-old brother, Roger, about anything.

Jack’s older brother, Steve, agreed. He was months older than I, and we were the duo that began our foursome. But as we aged, we moved as a group and wreaked havoc wherever we went.

To give you an idea of the dynamics of our group, I'd like to share just one story.

It turned out fine, but it could have had serious results . . . but at that age, we knew we were immortal.

A couple of blocks away from our little tract houses sat what I guess you would call a “catch basin”, a concrete-lined storm drain to catch runoff. To us, it was a pond . . . and we thought it looked like a good swimming hole.

The day was cold and blustery, and we had just been explicitly told not to go down to the basin and not to get wet.

Edging away from our Moms . . . Jack, the daredevil and instigator of the bunch, immediately suggested we go down to the pond. Not to go swimming . . . just to look around and skip rocks.

He had a look on his face that we all came to recognize as we grew older, but at this point, we didn’t realize the danger of following that face.

Walking gingerly down the steep sides of the basin, we could see the gray skies and the placid, but murky water, untouched by the wind above.

Plucking rocks from the shore, we tried valiantly to outdo each other at skimming rocks . . . but ended up with more plunks than ripples.

We slipped in the crunchy leaves near the water and naturally got to fooling around.

Suddenly, someone, I’m betting Roger, “accidentally” pushed Jack, who ended up sliding into the water . . . and his screech echoed up to the street.

Since Jack was fully dressed, and this was a pond, not a pool, he was immediately coated with mud below the knees.

We were all laughing hysterically.

His face turned ashen, deep with regret and concern.

But already in trouble, he flashed us that trademark grin and took a full-fledged dive into the muddy depths.

After swimming for a few moments, he lazily floated on his back toward shore.

“C’mon, what’s the matter with you guys? Ya’ chicken?” Jack cackled. “I dare you to come in!”

With no takers, he stood and started walking, only to feel his soggy shoes sink into the sludge.

He stopped dead . . . unable to move.

“You idiot,” Steve roared at his little brother. “Dad’s going to kill you!”

With childhood visions of deadly quicksand . . . dancing in all our heads, my first thought was to jump in and pull him out.

So, not being brilliant, that’s what I did.

Soon, I was up to my waist and unable to pull Jack from the muck.

Unfortunately . . . I had forgotten my Superman cape that day!

Here is where Roger asserted his diabolical intelligence.

He told Steve to go in partway and grab my hand, while I grabbed Jack’s. Roger, on the beach, would gallantly pull all three of us to safety.

Steve was skeptical and was still chuckling about the thought of Jack facing their Dad that night.

But, loyal to me and begrudgingly loyal to Jack, he trudged into the water, grimacing in the ice-cold pond.

All in position, Steve grabbed Roger's hand, and Roger started to yank on him to pull us all back to shore.

We slowly inched our way out . . . with the slop sucking at our P.F. Flyers.

Up this close, the smell of the water was slightly putrid, and we gagged back the bile threatening to erupt.

Then, with teamwork personified and victory in sight . . . it happened!

Jack’s cold, slimy hand began slipping from my grasp. Before I could spit out the words of our impending disaster, his hand was gone, and Steve and I both lost our balance.

Roger let go of Steve's hand, and we all went crashing into the water with a splash.

“Oh, great!” Steve wailed. “Now we’re all going to get it!”

“Well . . . maybe not all of us,” Roger smirked.

We looked up, and there he stood on shore, grinning . . . as clean as could be . . . looking like he was headed to Sunday School.

Eventually, we made our way to dry land, each of us carrying an extra 20 pounds worth of mud.

We quickly shed our clothes in hopes of getting them dry, but no dice. Pulling them back on . . . we confidently declared that our Moms would never know.

We weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer.

Imagine . . . we were three little kids in wet, mud-caked, rumpled clothes, thinking we could fool our Moms!

We may have had a chance with our dads . . . if it was cocktail hour . . . but not our moms in the afternoon.

As we neared home, our shoes sloshed and squished out water with every step.

We could see our moms standing on the sidewalk in front of Steve and Jack’s house, talking away. It took a while for them to notice us.

When they did, their mouths dropped open . . . and while they didn’t say anything right away, the looks on their faces said it all.

We were in big trouble.

Roger, spotting their "looks", quickly left the three of us and ran to our moms.

He turned to face us, mimicking their posture, hands on his hips, and his mouth screwed up crookedly in disbelief.

It was in that moment that I realized Roger was brilliant.

"I told them not to go swimming, Mom, but they did anyway," Roger said hastily, before we could open our mouths.

"They wouldn’t listen to me," he added, sending a mischievous glance our way.

We were incredulous!

But there we stood, shivering and scared, in clothes that were destined for the garbage pail . . . while Roger was perfectly dry, in his nicely pressed blue jeans and a sweatshirt.

The kid was a genius!

"Just wait until your Dad gets home," both Moms growled in disbelief.

I hated Roger for many years . . . but somehow . . . even as I wanted to strangle him . . . I realized he had fostered loyalty, teamwork, and demonstrated real intelligence.

And, that’s when I knew . . . that . . . like Roger . . . instead of being a follower . . . I wanted to be a leader . . . but in my own way!