Bailey's Modern Odyssey

We rarely wasted a morning in the countryside of Jackson. It was the coolest part of the day, when the sun had just begun to peer into view. My older brother, twin sister and I would creep out the backdoor so as to not wake our two Boxers, then tiptoe across the dewy lawn to where the crooked chicken pen stood. One of us was the doorkeeper to prevent any chickens from escaping, and another spread the feed around the cracked dirt while the third would run into the coop to scare the birds out into the morning light. We would steal their eggs and make breakfast of them, and paired with burnt toast and pulpy orange juice, it didn’t get better than that.

There was a golden pear tree in my neighbors yard that we would climb until our parents woke. The little mosquitos that hid among the branches would creep out to bite our legs as we reached upwards to the blazing sun and cloudless sky. We’d snatch up the plump, crispy fruits when they were ripe, then wash them off with the hose and eat them on the front porch. As we sat on the faded white swing the summer breezes cupped our rosy cheeks, and we’d watch the hummingbirds flit from feeder to feeder.

In the afternoon mud squished between our stubbly pink toes, a little plastic slip-n-slide spread in front of us with cool water spraying from all sides. We would dive head first at 100mph, then crash into the pool of water at the end where the wasps were waiting to get us. Mom would bring apple slices and we would sit in the now muddy pool and discuss our plans for the rest of the day. Would we be kings and queens of the vast forest that went on for acres? Would we climb to our tree house in the sky and be pirates? Maybe we would just let all of the chickens loose and chase after them.

When the high sun became unbearable, and our pale skin began to turn red, we would be called in for a lunch of turkey sandwiches and cheddar Sun Chips. Our dessert was an Otter Pop, or two, or three, the corners of our mouths getting cut deeper and deeper from each of the plastic tubes. 

After lunch the cicadas would sing, and we’d beat the wooden panels on the brick walls of the house with a broom, watching the lizards as they scrambled to seek other shelter. With grubby fingers we would snatch them up, and they would bite us to escape, leaving behind a twitching tail in our palms. We did this until the mail person came, hopefully bearing letters from our friends on the far side of town. As soon as they’d pull away from our tilted white mailbox and drive just out of view, our calloused feet would run down the burning gravel driveway to snatch up our mail, leaving my parents bills and magazines for them to fetch.

When the blinding sun would disappear behind a pastel horizon, the street lights would flicker on, typically the signal that it was time for us to return inside. But this was a summer night, and we knew summer nights were the best. They’re the ones we can stay out late, I daresay 9:00pm, and continue the fun until our heavy eyelids would lead us inside. 

My siblings and I would jump on the trampoline, the rusted springs creaking with every step. And when our heads became too dizzy, we would lie there and gaze up at the star-speckled black sheet above us.

Dad would bring out marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers, and we would gather our lawn chairs as a bonfire roared to life in our backyard. The fireflies would pay us a visit and we would dance around the fire trying to capture them in our hands. If we were so lucky to catch one, the light would illuminate beneath our cupped palms.

We would poke the fire with long twigs, watching as the red ashes flew into the inky sky. The acorns we tossed into the flames would pop, shooting their shells into our dirt-crusted toes. The barred owls would hoot, and we would return with the same call that sounded like “Who cooks for you, who cooks for you-all”, a fact that we learned at the Museum of Natural Science. And the coyotes would howl, reminding us that the only thing separating us from them was a tiny barbed-wire fence.

When exhaustion overcame us, dad would throw dirt on the fire and guide us inside, where mom had prepared steamy showers. After the caked mud, bug spray and sunscreen all washed down the drain, my twin and I would throw on our flannel pajamas and hop onto the red bunk bed filled with our various Webkinz. We would stay up for just a few minutes talking with our brother, but tired eyes would close and we would dream up a new day, one filled with even more excitement.