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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