a theme emerges

Wreck of the month
As a kid I would build complicated roadways in the sand and dirt under a huge five-trunked Weeping Willow near our house. My collection of HotWheels, Corgi, and Matchbox cars would barely hit the the streets before there'd be a violent pile-up, usually resulting in flames. Imaginary drivers and passengers who occupied cars with functional doors would run off, the others had no escape route and were imaginarily mangled or burned alive, screaming for help!
My friends and I also liked to hang around a gas station that had a new totaled car on display every month. We loved the smell of gas and would get nauseous inhaling the nearby fumes as we inspected the crumpled cars. Usually these cars were set up as warnings against teen drinking and driving. These tableau didn't scare us. We were intrigued by the drama and violence the twisted steel and smashed glass hinted at. The degree of damage and amount of blood and trash inside always told us a story. Aside from underage drinking teen sex was always a key ingredient. (Another one of our pastimes was rousting half-naked teenagers doing whatever they were doing down the beach from our house. The boys would always chase us, pulling up their shorts, threatening our deaths) We'd work up a scenario on the way home from the garage only to come back the next day because one of us would insist they had seen some bit of evidence that the others hadn't noticed. Was that a trace of blood on the tire iron, or just rust?
The hazardous roadways I built under the willow during the day rarely made it through the night, flattened by the passed out bodies of the bums that hung out there after dark and drank. They always left behind wine bottles and small label-less tins that I learned contained Sterno. She told me not to touch them that it was poison. I'd been using them as substructure for my highways and ignored her warning.


Beach House
We had a canvas tent that my brother, sister, and I slept in sometimes. It was set up at the edge of where the grass met sand. Our mother called it The Beach House. One night as we lay on our sleeping bags waiting to sleep, a flashlight beam started darting around the wall that separated us from the lawn that led up to the house, someone was coming. We sat up on our elbows waiting to see what was up. The front flap opened revealing mother in a nightgown. She had a big knife that she waved around, motioning for us to follow her. As we left the beach the driveway filled with cop cars, and the officers took off towards the willow. We tried to malinger and see what was going on but mother hustled us up to the house.
The next day we found out a bum had killed another bum, stabbed him. We were banned from going to the tree, but overwhelmed by curiosity, we went. We hoped for evidence, blood splatter, ripped clothing, we didn't know. We wanted anything that would reveal the details of what happened cause no one was telling us. My streets were trampled of course, but evidence-wise there was nothing, not even the usual discarded Sterno cans. I suppose we expected what the wrecks-of the-month provided, a story. I checked the paper for a few days but there was nothing.