My Poor Walking Buddy

We were to have a walking buddy.  We were to walk in a line, in pairs, with our walking buddy.  

"Hold hands.
Stay on the sidewalk.
And don't pick things up off the ground.
Brad, put that down, please!  That's trash.  Icky, no!"

I imagine Hazel must have thought to herself "Goddammit, you little fucker." at least twice a day.
About each of us.
If i recall correctly, there were about seven of us at any given time, so that could be an understatement.

My walking buddy was Emily.  We were about 4 years old.  We were walking uptown for ice cream.  This was a rare treat.  Just like when there weren't very many kids at Hazel's on a particular day, we got to pile in her car and go visit the Tasty Freeze that wasn't within walking distance.  But this particular day, we walked two-by-two, holding hands swinging our arms back and forth as our little feet padded the sidewalk.  The pendulum motion of Emily and I's arms growing larger and larger as i feel the momentum and wish to keep it going.  Back and forth, higher and higher.  

I was bigger than Emily.  My arms were longer than hers, and even though Emily was resisting and audibly protesting her hand being interlinked with mine, i continued to swing our arms back and forth, higher and higher.

Next thing i know Emily is on the ground, i have her by the wrist, and i'm pulling hard on her arm.  "Get up! Get up! Let's go!  We gotta get ice cream!" Emily is crying.  Emily is making no attempt to get up.  I'm yanking hard on her arm, in order to help her up.  It's not working.  She's laying on her side in the grass right next to the side walk.  My only solution is to keep yanking on Emily's arm, until Hazel sees us.  Hazel separates our arms while scolding me.

"Can't you see you're hurting her?"

"Obviously not, you old bat."  I'm kidding, i didn't say that.  

But that's where that memory ends.  A scolding from my babysitter for hurting Emily.  And the feeling i always got when i would recall this memory, was that what happened was a big deal.  

Next memory: It's still summer.  We're all outside in the fenced-in back yard.  I had my shovel and my pail from the sandbox, but i was using it under the playground slide to shovel the rocks into my pail because i'm four years old and i'm sure i intended to count and name and keep those rocks until JJ had the brilliant idea of making mudpies and throwing them at the side of the house.  JJ taught us how to grab a handful of grass, hang on real tight and pull upwards to obtain a good-sized dirt clod.  The ground was moist.  The grass was lush.  And when pressed into a pie, and thrown at the siding, they stuck pretty well.

But there was a whimper coming from Emily.  She wanted to help.  She tried to help.  She couldn't do it herself.  She couldn't quite grasp it.  Because Emily's arm was in a cast.

UNENCUMBERED

Riding in the back of a truck on hot, summer evenings was an exciting way to treat small-town children to some cool air after inferno-like days.  My friends and I would have spent all the hours we were allowed at the swimming pool. Come home, barely eat our dinner to save room for ice cream later, and assess the pink or brown tones of our skin. In my case, usually, it was red tones that later peeled and often needed chilled aloe vera. I could never be bothered to put on sunscreen. My nose and my lips were grotesquely damaged many of the days each summer until I reached the age where not looking like a scabby troll mattered to me because I had crushes. Suddenly, applying that SPF was effortless.

When it was time for ice cream, I'd get to hop in the back of daddy's truck, sometimes with a neighborhood friend. Mom instructed Dad never to go too fast. She was always concerned one of us would fall out. But even if he was creeping along at Sunday speeds, the warm, summery smells of the air were breezy and felt like the most satisfying quench after an unreasonably long thirst.