One of the Boys

I know I've been missing in action recently, but I'm back. I thought I'd put this in for my English students, who are writing a similar assignment this week.

When I was a child, all I wanted to do was fit in with the boys of my family. It wasn’t until I was older that the girls outnumbered the boys, so I either played with the boys or I played alone. Being a girl in a boy’s domain was difficult, but I was always willing and up for the challenge. At least that’s what I believed that hazy morning when I went outside to play with the boys proudly wearing my brand-new, brown corduroy pants.


The sunny, cloudless sky created an ideal day to play chase, so of course that is what the boys had in mind. Being a girl, I always had to pay my dues, so we began with me being “it” as usual. I was faster than the younger Scott, so I caught up to him as he ran in and out the trees. Chad, however, decided to jump the fence leading into the woods. He stood on the other side of the barbed wire fence taunting me under the shade of the thick pine trees, while Scott urged me to jump the fence and go after him. I could feel my heart beat quicken as I built up the nerve to climb the fence. We’d been told stories about what lay in the woods on the other side of that fence. Stories I’m sure were told to keep us away, but the denseness of the forest and eerie quiet from the other side was enough to make you afraid to go anywhere near the rusting fence.

Finally, with heart pounding in my ear, I grabbed the fence and began to climb. The rusted chain link fence was rough beneath my small hands and left orange streaks in my palms, but I made it to the top. I threw one brown panted leg over, and I felt something sharp pierce my leg through the pants. I gave my leg a tug and a ripping noise echoed through the silent morning.

The game of chase had ended. Chad helped me and my torn pants down from the top of the fence before all the boys scattered into their hiding places reserved for such occasions. I nervously walked to my great-grandmother’s house alone. Chad’s words rang in my ears as I made that long thirty foot walk, crying. My mother was waiting, and I’d only had those brief moments to think of a story that would make Chad allow me to play with the boys again.

After spending two hours on my knees, I was released back outside with old pants and a sense of relief. Chad was waiting for me on the back steps. I had not tattled, as we called it as children. I’d remained loyal to my “boys.” Because as I had told my mom that day, I had only fallen next to the fence and ripped my pants. We weren’t really doing anything wrong. It was a motto I learned well as I attempted to fit in with the boys.

Adventure at the Car Wash

After twelve years of abstinence, I decided to wash my car. An older friend had once told me that there were certain things that a lady shouldn’t have to do, and I had wholeheartedly embraced this concept in terms of car washing and mowing the grass.

Of course, this philosophy works best when someone’s willing to wash said car for you, or you’re willing to sport a filthy ride.

So said car was dirty, and reality being that there is no one to wash it for me anymore, I figured I better try and determine if it was like riding a bike.(Hmm, I haven’t ridden one of those since I was a teenager. That may be the next task I need to take on.)

I enlisted the help of my two children with the idea that it would be a fun project for the three of us to do together.

In traditional fashion, personalities emerged quickly. My son enjoyed the process of completing a task, and he even stuck around to dry the car. Mini-Me lost interest before we made it to side two of the car. She instead decided to wash her scooter before moving on to a small ball.

The ball was interesting, for as you can imagine a ball won’t stand still when water shoots forcefully out of a garden hose at it. After chasing it around the driveway for a bit like a great puppy chase, she distracted her brother into helping her.  He proceeded to hold the ball out in front of him while she aimed the garden hose at it. She shot him with water up and down, narrowly escaping the ball with each pass, as he yelled, face turning red, for her to stop. I turned to intercede and startled her into turning the hose on me.

We emerged soaking wet, but with a clean car. One memorable family moment. Check.

I still haven’t relented on the mowing grass objection. I have to retain some claim on the saying that a lady should refrain from doing such dirty tasks. Besides, me with a lawn mower may be dangerous for all involved, but maybe the car washing business isn’t so bad.