It was 1966, and I was in third grade. My best friend, David, lived next door, and we played together every day. My friends and I ran around the backyards in our neighborhood, playing army and jumping back and forth over the small stream that flowed through the area. We shot each other with our toy guns and sticks that we found in the nearby woods.
During one of these games, David and I were chasing Mark and his brother, Kirk. I ran past a large willow tree, pushing the branches aside, and hid under a footbridge that crossed the stream and took careful aim at Mark with my gun.
“BANG!” I yelled, “Mark, you’re dead.”
“No, I’m not. You missed.” Mark ran down the stream toward a ravine a few hundred yards away, leaving Kirk in the dust.
I ran after him with David. “He cheats,” I said, laughing.
“Never mind. I’m going to circle his house from the other side, then we’ll capture him. He won’t get away from both of us.”
I smiled at David’s plan and nodded. He made a hard left, running as fast as he could.
I ran after Mark. “BANG! BANG!” I yelled.
“Ha. Missed again.”
I knew I’d missed. I wasn’t even aiming at him.
Mark made his way into the ravine. It had steep, tree-lined walls and many places to hide. I thought we’d never find him. But there he was, peering from behind a tree. He saw me and looked up with a shocked look.
“You couldn’t hit a barn door.”
David was quietly sneaking up behind him.
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see, smart guy,” I said.
David was now directly behind Mark, pointing his gun at him. “Drop the gun, hands up!” he yelled.
Mark wheeled around and saw David. “What! That’s not fair.”
I was proud that David and I found him. “Give it up. We have you,” I said.
From off in the distance, we heard, “Boys, who wants some Kool-Aid?”
It was Mark’s mom. “Coming, Mrs. Whistler,” we said, and ran across the stream and up the hill to Mark’s back porch. There was a large pitcher of bright red cherry Kool-Aid with ice on the table. Little droplets of water clung to the outside of the pitcher. We all guzzled down an ice-cold glass.
“That tastes great. Thanks, Mrs. Whistler,” I said. She smiled at me as she cleaned up the dishes.
We played army for the rest of the day. After what seemed like only a few minutes, I heard from the distance, “Sc-aaa-tt, time for dinner.”
I could not believe it was already time for dinner.
“That’s my Mom, gotta go.” I ran off toward my house.
This is a scene from my upcoming book Motorcycle Stories - Finding forgiveness on the open road. It is the story of Scott, a young timid boy saving up and buying a motorcycle that becomes his lifelong love. He and his best friend Ross take motorcycle trips around the northeastern U. S. where Scott faces his fears and comes to grips with his drug addicted and abusive mother. This scene takes place early before I noticed anything wrong and I was still living in an ideal world.
For more about the book, please see https://www.scottocamb.com/ and subscribe to my Substack to stay informed about the book’s launch this fall.
Scott, this is such a great read - I can't wait for more! :D
Ah , the world of little boys! How do they know they have "missed" with a toy gun? Was it the first person to "call it" who gets to decide whether it was a hit or miss? Such a mystery to a mom. I can just see those Koolaid red mustaches, hear the voice of mother calling, smell those sweet, damp, sweaty little boys. Sad that little boys are mostly sitting staring at a screen these days. They don't know what they are missing. Thanks for the memories you gave me with this evocative writing.