By W. R. Jones
The track that circled my small town Iowa high school football field was covered in finely crushed cinder. Most running tracks of that time were covered this way. I’m not sure if cinder still exists.
One autumn Friday night just before a football game I was sitting along the track with three friends. One of them picked up a small stone, held it up, and said, “They call me The Rock.” A second teenager picked up a twig lying on the track, held it up, and said, “They call me Old Hickory.” A third boy picked up one of the cinders and said, “They call me Cinderella.”
Those teenagers of long ago are all dead now but I can still remember the laughter.