A day in the life of childhood

        We were jungle children, me and my brother. Not in the literal sense, but figuratively we were jungle children. The days of my childhood were spent in adventurous youth; riddled with tromps through the woods surrounding our small home, the building of forest forts, many creek explorations, and the climbing of any and all trees possible.
         Between reading any book I could get my hands on and trying to satisfy my insatiable curiosity, there was hardly time for thoughts on the risks of our actions. The world was our playground and we gratefully accepted the challenge of conquering it. Things were reckless and wild and we loved it. I was nine when that changed.
         As I pulled myself out of bed on that morning in the middle of July I found myself tripping over the mountainous pile of books that always seemed to accumulate at the side of my bed (after all, putting them away would mean retrieving them again later in the evening) and greeting the parsley colored carpet with my face. It was a weekend, which meant mom was home, leaving me and my brother to predictably be kicked out of the house shortly after our pop tart breakfast.
                “Creek?” I asked my brother as we wandered through the front yard, the scent from my mother’s Tiger Lilies (lining the flower bed around our black mailbox) heavy on the breeze. The sun was shining and the birds were chirping; best of all it was the perfect day for one of our famed creek explorations – which usually ended in trouble rather than fame.
                “Sure.” He said, leading the way down the road to the bridge at the bottom of the rather large hill. The bridge was small but like a castle to my imaginative mind; the area underneath was laid with flat, thick sheets of concrete ending in a mini waterfall to one side and overlapping bulbs of rushing water to the other. After climbing down over the piles of excess rock rubble from the road to the creek bed we took stock of our options. If we took the path to the left of the bridge we would explore familiar territory behind our neighbor’s house, if we were to take the right we would undoubtedly get ourselves into trouble. The area to the right was off limits and dangerous according to our mom. Naturally, we immediately began threading through the ankle length water to the right.
                “I bet you’ll fall in first!” I shouted and slipped along the mossy stones, giggling I sprang forward in the water and pushed lightly on Cole’s back. Wheeling his arms about he fought to stay upright. When he managed to regain his balance he looked at me in irritation.
                “Stop!” He whined, pushing back.
                “No.” I stubbornly announced, returning his push. It was one of those little arguments children have that in five minutes mean little to nothing, and in this case it ended with us laughing - covered in water from head to toe.
                “Come on, let’s go, the fishing hole is up ahead.” Cole interjected between attempts to stand, he pointed towards the bend in the creek up ahead. I knew that around the corner I would find the large pool of murky, muddy water that had become known as the fishing hole. Actually, most large pools of muddy water that littered the course of the creek we simply called fishing holes, though they were devoid of fish for the most part. I didn’t particularly like these fishing holes, their depths were mysterious and their bottoms felt slimy against my bare feet, but Cole enjoyed them and many times he would wade through the water rather than skirt along the rock beach like I did.
                The road and bridge disappeared from view behind us, obscured by the clumps of trees that rose up on each side of the creek walls, and we quickly slipped past the fishing hole.
        We were exploring further than we’d ever been before, the fallen tree at the end of the fishing hole was the last familiar marker to my eyes. The excitement of new things to take in was almost overwhelming and I fell into a quick trot of curiosity in the way only a kid can. My brother shared my enthusiasm and we covered ground quickly, the distance between us and the road growing with each step of our little bare feet.
                Somewhere between the fishing hole and the fence I had become so wrapped up in covering ground that I’d never stopped to wonder what purpose the fence served; rather we forged ahead, nimbly ducking beneath the fence and slowly advancing through the muddy field. The moist dirt squelched beneath my toes and I stopped briefly to look around. There was no house (not unusual for farm country) and no roads, only a large mud-encrusted field and a single barn standing in the distance – it’s red paint clearly chipped and faded – with it’s doors wide open.
                Had it not been for the loud and terrifying snort, perhaps neither of us would have noticed the rather robust animal that seemed to suddenly appear behind us. As a child there are some things you might naturally learn to fear. A bull would be one of those things.
                I was paralyzed in fear when my brain finally managed to process that there was a bull only a few yards away and it was looking very angry. Snorting it threw its head about, the hair matted with mud and (most likely) cow scat.
                My mother had warned us, not is so many words, but we’d been specifically told to not venture to the right, and we had. We just had to venture to the right. Brilliant.
                Cole, who had come to grips with the situation quicker than me, slowly backed towards me; the bull’s eyes followed his movement and I could see the reflection of his red shirt in its eyes. Before I could tell what was happening he had my hand and was hauling me back across the field towards the fence. The bull was hot on our trail and I could almost imagine the hot stench of its huffs as it gained on us. We only just made it under the fence, my shoulder brushing the bottom wire and receiving a shock of electricity. We separated and scrambled back into the creek bed, our feet creating sharp splashes and fear drove us towards home. I didn’t allow myself to slow down until the bridge was in sight; the grey concrete had never looked so good to my eyes before that moment. Until I saw mom standing atop it, hands on her hips and face alit with annoyance.
                “Where have you two been? Didn’t I specifically say stay in the yard, let alone that side of the creek! What were you thinking?” She broke off from her tangent, taking in our wet, muddy, and shaking appearances, “What happened?”
                Cole and I looked at each other, a silent agreement running across the air and before we scrambled back up the rocks to follow mom up the hill to the house, we each muttered identical explanations.
                “Nothing.”

Author's Note

Personal Narrative essay for Adv. Comp. which I got a 95% on, and predictable all my mistakes were comma related. It's all barmy I tell you.

Reviews

[Owl]

Sounds like a really fun childhood. I once found myself in a field full of sheep, but that's hardly the same thing. This feels like a really fun, earnest account, and it's told really well. Really fondly, I think is the right word. It's stuff like the repetition of your 'bare feet' that gives it a personal touch.

Anyway, grammar isn't everything.