Narrative Example
I was eight years old on a summer day, back
when summers seemed to stretch on for years, when classrooms were
easily forgotten until the autumn flood of Buster Brown shoe
commercials began. Hide-and-go-seek was our game of choice,
especially fun on days like this one, when what seemed like an army
of children gathered on my front porch steps, waiting anxiously to
know who would be "it."
The rules were few, but sacred: no
hiding in houses, no crossing the highway, and no trespassing in Mr.
Roos's garden. The final rule was a matter of necessity, as Mr. Roos
was not fond of children, and even less fond of children in his
azalea bushes. Occasionally, our fearsome neighbor would pop out of
nowhere, his booming voice making us shudder, staring at us with his
one good eye. His left eye was entirely white, like a malady of a
comic book villain. No sane person would dare intrude on his piece
of earth. Of course, that made them the perfect spot in which to
hide.
Kids gathered round for the ceremonial
one-potato-two-potato which would determine the seeker. Tommy Frank,
nine-years-old, had not yet figured out that the results could be
predicted with third grade math. He made a pathetic "it," stomping
his feet and pulling at his Sesame Street overalls, his nose running
as always. Eventually he relented, leaned against the porch's
banister, and began the count:
"One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi,
three-Mississippi…."
I was off! As I dashed up Kidder Street,
I spied my older brother Jim, far ahead, Mercury in Nike shoes. I
knew better than to try to follow him. Joey Simms, my best friend
last year, before boys became icky, had already taken up residence
in his standard hiding place, the elm in his own front yard. As I
passed him, a dumb show ensued:
"You'll get caught!" I mouthed.
"Says you!" his gestures told me.
"Eleven-Mississippi,
twelve-Mississippi…."
Twelve! Tommy could only count to
twenty-five! I scanned the landscape quickly for my own hiding spot.
Sue Polaski was behind my favorite drainpipe; Nicole O'Leary was in
my trash can of choice. Where?!
Then I made the decision, and
backtracked half a block to Mr. Roos's house. Tommy would not dare
look for me here. As I wiggled my way between two particularly leafy
branches, I heard Tommy's high-pitched call:
"Twenty-five! Here I come!"
The sweet smell of azaleas mixed with
fertilizer made me dizzy. Shifting my weight back and forth, I heard
the squish-squish of the freshly watered ground. Tommy was
approaching. It was then I heard the screen door open behind me.
A collective gasp came from every nook
and cranny of Kidder Street as Mr. Roos strode to stand directly
behind me and demanded to know, "What are you doing in my garden?!"
I rose to me feet, looked him square in
the face [yes, even that one white eye], and said,
"Hiding, you old jackass!"
And my Buster Browns did not fail me.