When I was a child being poor wasn’t a problem, being a tom boy sometimes was. A week of heavy rains filled me with delight because I knew the sunken field in front of my house would flood. In the summer it was our baseball field. In the winter it was our lake and we were going to use our lake.
All the neighborhood kids had been waiting for the same thing, enough rain to flood the field so we could push off shore and go sailing. Well, not so much sailing as floating. We didn’t think about what we would do once we were in the middle of the lake, but we knew that’s where we wanted to be, on our own lake on our own rafts. When I say rafts, I mean home made rafts put together with assorted boards found lying around. Mine was nailed together some were roped together some were just big pieces of wood that would hopefully hold together. When you’re poor, you make do. So there we were freezing, excited and ready. Four of us rested our rafts at the waters edge; my six year old brother helped me push our raft into the water and we were the first to make it to the middle of the lake. We stood up and waved to our friends on shore; the ones not sure about the adventure, the safety, or the wisdom of the race. I was going to be the first one to make it across, the winner, the brave soul who took life by the reins and forged ahead. But what’s a race without competition?
Lightning flashed across the dark sky as rain began to fall. We were in heaven. Well, I was in heaven. My brother wanted to go home and have some hot chocolate, get into dry clothes and stand by the heater. I hollered encouragement from the middle of the lake, but no one was listening. We were the only ones brave enough to face the elements, or dumb enough; it depended on your idea of adventure.
Mom heard all the yelling and rushed outside. Of course there was yelling. Why weren’t the others getting onto their rafts and into the water? She waved frantically for me to come in but we had no paddle. We couldn’t think of everything! About that time the raft began taking on water which made it a bit more difficult to lie on our bellies and use our arms as paddles. So there we were paddling away, our skinny little arms flailing in the freezing water, holding our heads up so we could breathe, our raft slowly sinking, our mother in a panic, those on shore cheering us on. I never thought about what would happen if our raft sank, so when it did, I was taken by surprise. Before I knew what was happening, we had fallen off the raft and were standing in three feet of muddy water. My baby brother wrapped his arms tightly around my neck as I helped him onto my back. I saw no reason for concern, I had things under control. Okay, I wasn’t in control, but I was sure I would be able to get us out of this. After all, I was eight. I was having some trouble lifting my feet, my boots were stuck in the thick gooey mud and every time I tried to lift one the other went deeper into the muck.
Another flash of lightning crossed the sky. The water rippled from the thunder. I was having a great time. My brother was not so much, but I told him to hang on. We would be okay. I was almost sure. Yes, my feet were stuck, it was raining, there was lightning and a little thunder, no big deal really.
When I looked up and saw Mom wadding knee deep through the water, I knew I was in trouble. Without saying a word she pulled my feet out of my boots, my brother off my back, and with a firm grasp on my arm, walked us safely back to dry land. We both got into dry clothes. My brother sipped a steaming cup of hot chocolate, his chair placed close to the heater, while I was sent to my room. How fair was that? It’s not like we drowned or anything!
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