creative nonfiction

When I was young, my list of activities would be predetermined by what season it was. In the winter and spring, most of my time was spent in the pasture behind my family’s half-old brick house out in the country. Then in the summer and fall, I would spend my time just outside the confines of the house. The pasture was full of exciting possibilities and narrow paths that led to what seemed like a billion destinations, whereas the areas surrounding my house were left up to my limitless childhood imagination. There was never a dull moment when I was a child since I was always creating games with my little brother and taking turns in being terrorized by my older one and terrorizing him back. My mom, dad, and grandma would give me just enough freedom to explore the world outside my home and just enough restrictions to not get into too much trouble.

            In the winter after the snow had already fallen, I would follow a path in the pasture that would veer off near a pond. It would be so cold that the pond would freeze almost completely solid. Almost. I remember my courageous older brother, Henry, would attempt every winter to stand smack in the middle of the frozen pond, but before he ever got there he would fall on the ice and it would surely crack. A jolt of panic would always rush over me as I imagined in horror my brother sinking to the bottom. Luckily, my dad would always be there to save Henry by calling him a “knucklehead” and yelling at him to get away from the middle. It was always a joy to witness my brother attempt to stand back up again in his bulky orange coat, thick gloves, and one-size-too-large winter boots.

            When spring would roll around, I was always the first (and only one) to venture out into the pasture to pick wildflowers. They grew out between an old house and what my family lovingly referred to as “the turd barn” where the cows often gathered. I would pick the pale yellowish flowers with the juicy green stems for my grandma who lived with us. She made the house feel fuller, and there was always something I would try to collect or concoct to please her. It didn’t take much. Almost every day after school my younger brother and I would resort to making mud pies for my grandma as well. We used this old, rusty frying pan to place a base of mud in the bottom, as well as the pretty purple weeds, clovers, and tiny banana flowers. One time my older brother convinced us that the flowers actually did taste like bananas. They did not.

            The joys of spring always ended far too soon and were replaced by wretched times. I never preferred summer. It was always so hot and there were always too many flying insects squishing my dreams of playing in the grass and making mud pies. My favorite time was when it turned dark and the creepy creatures would retreat into their coves. You could still hear their repetitive cries for attention along in the strange evening breeze, but after a few traumatic years for a child afraid of anything she didn’t understand, their noises became a calming white noise for me. I would listen closely as I scavenged for locust (or cicada) shells with my little brother, Bradley. Of course, I could only listen so closely with my brother’s annoying voice filling the air between us (don’t tell him this, but I really did enjoy his company in those late-evening scavenger hunts.)

            Summer would finally end and surely enough, there was fall. Just like that, it seemed the dead grass would turn into even deader grass, and the unbearable heat would shift into a miserable cold. This was before I discovered my love for sweaters, but not before I was whisked into the world of boiling hot water and powdered cocoa. Sure, it was only fall and it wasn’t that cold, but after one season of mild warmth and one season of too much warmth, it felt like the right time to dive into even more warmth. Only this time it was warranted. My mom would not-so-gladly oblige to preparing the orange kettle for hot chocolate anytime I asked more than once. Bradley and I would indulge in our mugs full of wonder after a few particularly chilly evenings of pretending we were royalty on a pile of bricks leftover from the construction of the newer side of our house.

            These times dictated by the seasons were my favorite, but as the years went on and I grew older, it was difficult to grasp onto my old traditions. It wasn’t all bad, though. With one interest lost, another was gained. I started playing an instrument after I spent less time drinking hot chocolate, and I started reading more and eventually writing after I spent less time collecting locust shells in the late summer evenings. These new interests didn’t even have to be dictated by what season it was. It was all a part of me growing up, and I don’t regret building onto the person I already was to be the person I am today. I never gave up on those childish dreams or lost that infinite imagination. My dreams just became bigger and my imagination has always been there, even if I couldn’t find it for a while. Yet even today, I still enjoy looking back on the adventures of my childhood.