Today, Mom decided to pull out some of the old homeschooling binders that she had (we were trying to remember who had the highest ACT score. We're pretty fiercely competitive). While perusing one of the binders, I stumbled across one of the essays I'd written for college back when I was sixteen. Since I was still being homeschooled by Mom at the time (she liked to keep me busy), I'd decided to also make it count towards my spelling lesson of the week. I'd forgotten that I'd written it...until now, anyway. The result was amusing.
Anyway, without further ado, allow me to present A Day in the Woods.
It was a clear summer day four
years ago. Our expedition set out as loudly as was humanly possible; my
siblings and I bolted out the back door at top speed, heading for the woods.
Carefree, exuberant, plans for the day fresh in our minds, we were the axiomatic
archetype of capriciousness. Not to be wordy about it or anything.
Plowing up dirt and grass, we
skidded to a stop at the base of an oak tree. The grand patriarch of this part
of our forest, he offered the best climbing around. First, my brother, cognizant
of all the nuts around the tree, mentioned this find, which promptly led to an
abandonment of all plans for the time being as we raced to gather the acorns. Soon,
however, candid remarks offered by contentious siblings turned the area into a
battleground. In good humor, we pelted each other with “bullets” and, grabbing
sticks, commenced to “swordfighting.” This turn of events could only disturb
the woods for so long; soon we were flat on our backs, out of breath. Peace was
made between the pirates and the royal navy, and we were ready to begin the
ascent.
I hoisted myself into the tree and
lent a hand to the others. The birds chattered at us as we trespassed into
their domain, and the squirrels snatched some of our ammo from the ground and
scurried off. Up and up we went, higher and higher, until we were at the top,
or as high as we were going to go.
The view was excellent. Sitting
with our backs to the rough tree trunk, we ignored the discomfort and admired
the scenery. Even though we were—are—not aesthetically minded, we could still
appreciate the surrounding sights. My brother promptly started to make up new
adjectives to describe the area and was instantly and effectively sedated by
popular request. The general conclusion afterwards was that wrestling in a tree
that high up was just dangerous, so we descended the tree. I stepped on a
rotten branch, resulting in me beating them to the ground by a good five
minutes.
Once they made it to the ground and
I took stock of my new assortment of bruises, we headed off for tree two. Some anomaly
had caused one of the branches to grow out almost perpendicular to the trunk
six feet from the ground. It was really thick and had convenient handholds in
the form of small branches growing straight out of the main limb. Needless to
say, we practically ran up the slope and swung like monkeys in and out of the
branches. My brother started making drum noises and was shoved out of the tree
by a vengeful older sister.
The drum re-ascended the tree amid
loud protests. A shower of leaves fell upon the protesters, who promptly turned
on me. I don’t care what Galileo said; I know
I hit the ground harder and faster then my erstwhile
brother-turned-word-creator-turned-drum. I scampered back up the tree and
confronted my sisters. I didn’t get the chance. The drum had taken its revenge.
Peace momentarily restored, we
began to have a yelling contest; i.e. whoever yelled the longest without taking
a breath won. Since nobody was willing to concede defeat, there was very nearly
a mass exodus from the tree right then and there. I suggested turning our
thoughts to other pursuits, such as an animal-imitation competition. My brother
won this one with his impression of a sick horse; I don’t think he meant to do that, but it knocked his
older sister, the hairball-inducing cat, off her perch convulsed with laughter.
The youngest person in the family, the dying cow, was hanging limp over two
branches while me, the Spanish duck with a sore throat, threatened the winner
with dire consequences if he didn’t cut
it out and let us catch our breath.
The unanimous conclusion of said
contest resulted in a general consensus that “our family had talent.” Looking back now, I wonder what
we ate that afternoon. I’m guessing it was high in sugar. Or caffeine. But I
digress.
By now, it was almost dinnertime. I
suggested seeing if we could jump from our perches without getting hurt. A vote
was called for. Two “ayes” and the reappearance of the horse were counted, with
the end result that three of our number were writhing on the ground in helpless
laughter, choking out dire threats against the naysayer smiling benignly down
at us from his perch on the tree. Obviously, we had lost what little sanity we
had to begin with. I recognized that and called for a return to the house. The
horse drummed his way out of the tree and fled for his life as a mass grab was
made for him. We reentered the back door sweaty and bedraggled, multi-colored
from numerous bruises. We didn’t care.
As I recall this incident, I am
convulsed with helpless laughter every time, as I was on that afternoon. I
wonder exactly why we set out on that expedition and why it stands out so well
in my memory. There must have been dozens of such incidents in my past. Why do
I remember it in particular? Was it our good-natured squabbling? Our weird
contests? Our constant descents?
Or was it because Mom caught us
red-handed in the chocolate chips that night?
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