Being kid

It is wet outside. The grass that hugs the side of the road is wobbling with dew. Like any

other springtime I am caterpillar hunting at my cabin. Hunting may not be quite the right word

since I would never hurt one, but hunting nonetheless. The chitter chatter of my family warms

me as we walk down to the bridge, only about a mile there and back to the stone fireplace that warms my toes inside the four walls of the cabin. My brown leather-hiking boots with army green laces are cinched up tight, so tight that my feet ache and long to be naked again. In my right hand I carry my lime green sand castle bucket while I walk with my brother and aunts

Bobette, Ewee, and Deannie. I have no sense of time while I am here. There is something magical about it’s beauty still. It’s unharmed. The only thing that matters in this moment is being with my family and finding as many black and orange fuzzy caterpillars as possible.

The caterpillars aren’t hard to find. But what I love most is picking them up and rubbing their soft little bodies. I don’t understand why but I love any small furry animals. The river echoes between the body guard mountains that surround us. I am a speck of sand in the grand scheme of things. We arrive at the brown steel bridge that is only wide enough for one car and we walk to the middle of it and stare of the side as the wild river rushes past us. My heart races.

It has always been an anxiety producing place in the middle of this bridge. Maybe my heart knew

then that three years later this would be home to my grandpa’s ashes because just like that he’ll

be gone. We stay only for a moment and head back towards the cabin. As we pass the house that

terrifies me on the right side of the road I get antsy to be back in front of the confines of the cabin, in front of the raging fire in the fireplace. We pass by Les and Thelma’s and my brother

begins to run.

“That looks fun”

“Your shoe is untied!”, my aunt yells.

With my caterpillars in one hand, I push off like a marathon runner and a few strides later make

acquaintances with the gravel face to face. It smells like dirt down here and reminds me of the

flavor of gravel. Yes, the flavor. I muster up the courage to stand up. I can feel the fiery anguish

building up inside. I am pissed. I want to scream, and run, and punch something all in one

moment. I have not yet developed a coping mechanism for these feelings and I don’t realize that

they are the result of chaos inside me. My caterpillars were everywhere except my bucket. As my family walks over to check on me and see if I am okay I quickly gather up my bucket and march

into the cabin past the garden that will later be home to Ewee’s memorial rock.

My dad is curled up on the couch napping and my mom is working on cleaning up the

dishes from brunch. I walk over to the orange couch from the seventies where my dad is laying

with the mismatched quilt with the red corduroy back. For some reason the sight of my dad unleashes the salty ocean that lies somewhere beneath my eyeballs and in front of my brain. My dad comes to and asks, “What happened?” I try to explain but I am too upset. All I can think is that “I lost my caterpillars. A whole afternoon wasted by one face to face appointment with the gravel.” Of course I can articulate any of this so I manage to say, “I fell” between sobs. While I am sitting still I notice heat that is radiating from my forehead and making a quick leap towards my nose. I’m bleeding. My dad get’s up from the couch and tosses the quilt aside like an old Raggidy Ann Doll. He tells me, “We need to go clean that with hydrogen peroxide. It won’t hurt.” I may be young but I have been hurt enough times to know that when dad says “It won’t hurt” that sure enough, it is going to hurt. Momma didn’t raise no dummy. Off we marched to the bathroom to clean things up. I scooted up onto the countertop so that my dad could assess the damage like an insurance broker. “You got some gravel in it”, he says. I don’t remember my reaction but I know I probably was thinking things were going to get worse, life had already taught me that fine little lesson. Finally we are done. My head is throbbing pretty good. When I say good, I don’t really mean good, I mean it really actually sucks. He got some ice out of the freezer and put it in one of my favorite red, checkered dish towels which smelt an awful lot like

the cabin drawers, like old damp wood that isn’t aired out often. I plopped down on the old

orange couch and took a load off. It’s tough being a kid.