My 11-yr-old niece loves to read stories in this blog about when her mother, my sister Ann, was a kid herself. She loves to hear about what she was like when she was her age and the silly or stupid things she did.

One such story involves a bike, a serious misjudgment and a pair of Drake’s Devil Dogs.

Here’s the thing about Devil Dogs. It was Ann’s favorite snack food back then and the first thing she’d spend her allowance money on. And she could get them just about any time she wanted. We were lucky to have not one, but two, corner stores near our house growing up. One was called The Apple Shack, which was owned by a woman named — I kid you not — Candy Apple.

The other one was called Verna’s, run by a little old lady and her husband. Located about three blocks from home, it was the quintessential Mom and Pop store. Sure, they sold incidentals like milk and bread for adults, but we kids knew it only as Junk Food Central.

Among other things, Verna sold ice cream, popsicles, homemade cupcakes and shoe-fly pie and giant lollipops bigger than our heads. She had a large wooden, glass-front case where we could peer inside at the array of penny candy and ask Verna to put together a little brown bag full of sugary confections. You could score a pound of goodies for about a buck if you chose wisely.

I always liked to get red licorice shoelaces, Flying Saucers, Tootsie Roll Midgies and Chick-0-Sticks, the latter being something of a cross between a less-sweet version of Butterfingers and pretzel sticks. You had to chisel half of it off your teeth, that is, if you had any left after eating them. Chick-o-Sticks and mortar. Same difference.

Then there’s Ann. Ever the discerning snack connoisseur, she had just one favorite — the Drake’s Devil Dog, a devil’s food cream sandwich whose wafers were shaped somewhat like a hot dog bun, hence the name. She’d eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner if our mother let her.

One Saturday afternoon in 1975, after getting our allowances, we decided to go on a candy and Devil Dog run to Verna’s. We hopped on our banana-seat bikes, pedaled hard up a two block hill, rounded the corner, dropped our bikes in front of the store, and had Verna throw some stuff together. Me with my grab bag, and Ann with her two Devil Dogs.

When we got outside and prepared to bike back home, Ann realized she should have gotten a bag for her things but didn’t feel like running back inside for one. Standing there, straddling her bike, she maneuvered the handlebars with just the palms of her hands, while she held the Devil Dogs with the tips of her fingers so as not to smoosh them.

I told her, "You’re not gonna be able to ride right if you hold ’em that way."

"Yes I can!" she shot back.

I seriously doubted it, and sure enough, she would soon pay dearly for this error in judgment.

We set off for home, proud that we still had a few bucks left of our allowance and happy to have enough snacks to spoil our dinner. As we approached the hill we biked up on, we prepared to set sail downward. It was always great to pick up speed and catch the wind in our hair. We’d blast through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, then race each other home in the last block.

But this ride was like no ride before, because somebody cared more about the welfare of her Devil Dogs than getting home in one piece. We’d gotten about halfway down the hill and picked up considerable speed when Ann hit a patch of stones in the road and it was all over in a flash. Because her hands were gripping the Devil Dogs instead of the handlebars, any chance of controlling the bike went right out the window. It was a hopeless situation.

When she braked to try to stop the slide, she was thrust head first over the handlebars and got herself caught in them so that she and the bike crashed to the ground in a twisted metal ‘n legs pretzel. Together they slid for about ten feet. And all along the way, gravel and other road debris became embedded in what were now ripples and ripples of scraped-up skin.

Had her dismount been part of an Olympic event, the judges would have leapt to their feet and pronounced it a "10" because not only did she damage herself quite badly, she also rendered her bike un-rideable. It was a perfectly-orchestrated knockout and both of them were down for the count.

The first thing I did, of course, was run to her aid and see if she could stand up. Crying and moaning, she gingerly rose to her feet and insisted she could walk home. I helped her over to the curb and urged her to sit back down and get her bearings first. I turned around to assess the damage. Looking in the street at her mangled bike, handlebars all askew, I spotted the reason Ann found herself battered and bloodied.

Amid the mangled mess of her bike lie two perfectly rounded, fully-formed, light and fluffy Devil Dogs, still in their micro-thin plastic wrap. The only visible damage was that some of the cream had oozed out the sides, but the wrap hadn’t burst. And they hadn’t been squashed. Ann’s dribbling blood all down her leg, but by God, her Devil Dogs were safe. And wasn’t that the point of all this?

She and her bike had seen better days. I did manage to bend back the front wheel to align it straight enough so she could push it. It squeaked a sad little squeak with each step we took on the slow walk home. After Ann limped through the door, our mother treated and disinfected her wounds and bandaged her hands and leg.

"How in the world did this happen?" Mom asked.

"I was…. sniffle …. trying to …. sniffle …. save the Devil Dogs," Ann whimpered.

"Well I hope you know that’s not a good enough reason."

Mom’s always right, but to Ann, it felt like reason enough. She did what she set out to do and saved the Dogs. And, as a bonus, was excused from having to go to church that night. To this day, despite the mayhem and carnage of that Saturday afternoon, she might even tell you it was worth it.

Tell us, Ann, was it?

Stumble it!