I’m writing a book. Okay, it’s the proverbial book that every writer is writing. But the other day my friend Krissy posted a blog about summer, and it prompted me to pull up one of the chapters of this autobiographical “book” and share it on here.
What’s your favorite summer memory?
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I’m bored.
My summer break usually lasted approximately 37 minutes before I spoke those words. Immediately, I clapped my hands over my mouth, wishing I could take them back. Praying my mother hadn’t heard them.
But she always did. On a bad day, she relieved my boredom by putting a toilet brush and a bottle of Ajax in my hand. On the good days, she sent me outside to play.
Using my imagination on those long hot summer days was a survival tool. When faced with the thought of spending hours in our dry yard, surrounded by soy bean fields, I had to pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Most mornings, I found myself on the moon. I carefully prepared for the trip. My supplies were stuffed in my pockets—sandwich bags, tweezers swiped from the medicine cabinet, a spoon. My bicycle helmet went on my head and my snow boots on my bare feet. I tromped through the yard, lifting my knees high in an awkward, anti-gravity march.
I crouched in the dusty yard, collecting samples. Warm dirt filled plastic bags, which I carefully clothes-pinned to my belt. I dug at moon rocks, moon dust collecting beneath my fingernails. At the inflatable pool I scooped up murky water in paper cups. I pulled the pool aside, then carefully pinched bugs with the tweezers, dropping them, squirming, into the bags. Soon my pockets sagged with specimens, and I spread them out in the shade, holding each one close to my face, jotting notes in a stained notebook.
At lunchtime, mom helped me peel off my boots and remove my helmet. My sweaty hair was plastered to my head as we ate lunch on the shaded porch. Bologna on soft white bread that stuck to my teeth. Drippy popsicles in clear plastic sleeves that I would slurp on until my cheeks ached.
After lunch, I needed to escape the heat. I walked around to the side of our trailer and swung open the door to the crawl space under the house. The bright sunlight only traveled a few feet in, leaving the rest of the area black. I crawled in, my face close to the cool, damp ground. Every few feet I glanced back, finding comfort in the square of sunlight over my shoulder.
I had never been in a cave, but this was how I imagined it. The heavy darkness. The thick cobwebs. The prickle of fear. I pulled out my pink Barbie flashlight and shone it around me. Its thin beam barely moved the darkness. I licked my dry lips, tasting grape.
In the middle of the space, I stopped, sitting cross-legged, my breath ragged. Somewhere, I could hear my mom walking through the house. The realization that she was just a few steps above me gave me confidence. Until I dropped my flashlight.
It sank slowly into a deep puddle filled with rain water. I plunged my arm in after it, but it was too deep. The darkness rushed in and I crouched next to the hole until the light flickered and went out. I jumped as water roared through the pipes by my head. The square of sunlight seemed miles away. So I screamed.
I heard my mother’s feet pound above me. Then I heard her voice in the yard. Coming closer. Until finally, her face appeared in the doorway. She quickly crawled towards me until the smell of her perfume filled the moldy air. “Blow,” she commanded as she pinched my runny nose with the hem of her shirt. She wiped my muddy face, then crawled next to me back into the sunlight.
Mom sighed as she surveyed my mud-caked clothes and scraped knees. “Arms up,” she said as she stripped off my t-shirt. She uncoiled the fat green garden hose and turned the spray on me. I squealed at the shocking cold against my sun-burned skin. The grass turned soft in the puddle at my feet and I opened my mouth, sputtering as my cheeks filled with the icy water. I stood shivering as mom got an old beach towel from the house and wrapped me in it.
I sat on the porch, the sun drying my skin. My hair hung thick and ropy around my shoulders, and I shuddered at the thought of Mom combing out the tangles later that evening. I suddenly felt very tired—as though I really had traveled from the moon to a dank cave beneath the earth.
Brandy Campbell
Copyright 2008
The title of this blog post was my shout earlier this weekend. I’ve been having a lot of “wow, I’m an idiot” moments lately, and I thought I would share them with you, dear reader. But I’m not stupid. I swear.
