Saturday, April 14, 2012

A Childs Freedom



          My brother and I sat in our separate elementary school classrooms counting how many times the painfully slow hand went around the clock.  Each minute in our last hour of class seemed to go slower and slower.  I quickly learned as a child that the key to making time go by faster was day dreaming.  I imagined the cool, refreshing water I felt as I jumped from the tree overhanging the bank of the river behind our house.  As I lost myself in these day dreams, my teacher always felt it her responsibility to bring me back to my unfortunate reality, that I was young, insignificant, and under her control.  She did this by smacking my desk with a yard stick then politely asking me to stand up, walk to the chalk board, and re-write over and over again “I will not daydream in class.  I will not daydream in class.”  My lines started straight, but around the 4th or 5th line they took a slight curve towards the bottom of the chalk board, along with my desire to succumb to my teachers command.  My wrist begged me for a break, but all the fun my brother and I would be having after school made the suffering worth it.
                The bell rang each day at 2:30 pm, and set all the future criminals, lawyers, presidents of the United States and garbage men free.  My fingers screamed with gratitude as I dropped the piece of chalk causing their suffering.  As I ran past my desk I quickly grabbed my back pack and shoved all the loose papers in.  I was able to make it from the chalk board, to my desk, and outside the classroom door before the free falling chalk struck the tile floor and shattered in tiny pieces and dust.  Mrs. Jackson yelled for me to return, however her voice was unable to reach me through the busy commotion of untamed kids running and yelling for freedom through the halls. 
                As I approached the bike rack, I could feel my day dream inch its way to reality.  My brother already had my bike unlocked and sat on his bike waiting for me with a smile on his face.  He put the bike lock in my back pack, helped steady the bike as I jumped on, and we rode home. During the ride home, only the most of important of topics were discussed; why some dogs lift their legs as they pee, while others, for some odd reason squat, why batman was better than spider man, and how we were able to steal magnifying glasses from our classrooms which would be used to kill millions of innocent ants at home.  Our conversations had the ability to make the slow hand on the clock go a bazillion times faster.  Our simple, white washed, two-story home was finally visible in the distance.
                Before coming to a complete stop on our gravel driveway, we jumped off our bikes and let them collide into each other as we ran up the skinny, rickety stairway that led to our front door. We sprinted towards our room screaming “MOM!  WE'RE HOME!”  The smell of freshly baked bread filled the house, but wasn’t strong enough to detain us.  We carelessly threw our backpacks on our bedroom floor and ran out of the house screaming “WE'LL BE AT THE RIVER!”  As we ran towards the backyard fence we looked over our shoulders and watched as our mother waved at us and blew us a kiss from the upper window.  The warmth from that kiss was always felt despite the cold breeze fighting its way through the microscopic holes in the threading of our clothes.
                Once we reached the fence, my brother carefully grabbed the barbwire pulling open a gap big enough for me to squeeze my tiny body through.  Once he was done guiding me through the gap, he took a few steps back, ran at the fence, and was able to jump over it by placing his left hand on the strong wood post bracing his body as he flew sideways through the air.   The only thing that lied between us and the river was our neighbors mile long alfalfa field.  We kept to our usual path, where the alfalfa had been smashed down and matted to the ground from previous trips to the river.   I relied on my brothers vision as I followed him because my short height barley allowed the tiny blond hairs on my head to see over the alfalfa surrounding us.
                Once we broke through the alfalfa field, the tree line blocking the river from our view waited for us about 50 feet away.  We quickly began to strip our shirts from off our backs as we ran, stumbling a little as we alternated hopping on different feet to take our shoes off.  The tree line was very dense, even thick.  We began to regret taking our shoes off early as we fought through the tall grass, low tree branches, and prickly bushes.  But what awaited us was worth all the pain and agony in the entire world.  Once we reached the edge of the river bank, our feet sunk down into the cold mud as we pressed off and leaped into the air, each trying to get farther than the other in the water.
                It was our secret spot.  The narrow river emptied into a large, oval shaped pool of water.  It was the deepest part of the river, which allowed us to climb the trees surrounding the pool and jump off their over-hanging branches down into the crystal clear water.  From atop the tree branches, we would stare down into the water waiting for the ripples from previous jumps to diminish, and we were able to spot the different fish in the river.  Our spot was well hidden, even the rays of sun light had difficulty finding the water, fighting its way through tiny gaps in the trees branches and leaves.  At sunset, the light made its way to a small bed of rocks that were uncovered from all the trees on the other side of the river.  The heat from the sun would warm the rocks, allowing me and my brother to sprawl on top of them and dry off before the sun went completely down.  Once dry, we took our fishing poles out from hiding, and tried to trick the fish with our dead worms and catch them. 
On weekdays, we were to return home in the evening, wash up, and get ready for bed and school the next day.  On a Friday, however, we were free.  After fishing, we would start a fire and cook the fish we caught for supper.  We would unroll our sleeping bags a few feet from the river onto a dry patch of grass close to the dirt fire pit and use our backpacks as pillows.  We continued our never-ending conversations from our bike ride home, planning out the mostly harmless pranks we would carry out against our two sisters and teachers the upcoming week.  Slowly, the soft light from the fireflies that lit up the trees above and the warmth from the dying fire put us to sleep.  No homework, no chores, no mean teachers, nagging sisters, or worried parents.  Freedom.  

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