Slowly, working my way through the expected recitation of numbers, 98 . . . 99 . . . 100, I would then yell out, "Ready or not, here I come" and begin to look for all those who had found a place to hide.
The best place for hide and seek was Grandma's barn since by the time my sisters, cousins and I were old enough to be allowed the freedom to explore outside of the house, there were no more horses or any other animals making their home there. A chute where hay could be dropped into a stall became a passageway we would learn to maneuver as well as the ladder that led to the hay loft. A big, old barn can provide hours of fun for those able to create the right game. There was no better place to hide or to seek.
We naturally divided up into teams and even though I can admit to the unfairness of this now, my cousin, Michael, and I were the oldest so we would choose to work together to outsmart the younger ones and win every time. We were in charge. We created a version of the game and made up the rules to suit ourselves. The younger children would follow us and try to keep up even though we were always dodging them.
It seemed that each time we had figured out a new twist to the game that would make it even more challenging, and we would have barely worked out the finer points of this new, improved version, the unmistakable sound of my mother's voice, calling us back into the old farmhouse of her youth, would echo through our made-up world and we would have to reveal our hiding places and go home.
There was always the hope that we would come back and it would be better the next time. I remember waiting for that to happen. But then came the day of the auction when everything of value was sold. Eventually the house my mother grew up in became someone else's home. My last memory was finally getting to go into the attic and playing with what would have been considered antique toys even then--the kind that were made out of metal and wood and required imagination, not batteries.
We would take a drive out on the dirt roads by the old house whenever my mother felt like reminiscing, but someone either was not careful in the kitchen or the house was struck by lightning. In any case, it burned to the ground. Michael, the cousin I most looked forward to seeing at my mother's family gatherings, died too young.
To make the discovery of whatever it is that makes my heart sing is a glorious feeling. At last, I have found something I can put all my energy into, I tell myself. From this point on, I have a new goal, a new outlook on life, a new calling. I see life in a whole new way. It transcends words shining through my smile and my near-sighted eyes. Feeling more powerful I take up running again. I make an effort to reveal my heart to prospective friends. I tell myself it is going to be different this time. From now on.
It is then my natural inclination to try to hold onto this feeling, this hope, this dream as tightly as I can for fear that it will get away from me like a balloon filled with helium whose tiny string playfully slips through my fingers. I make a mad scramble to hang on with everything I have got. And then it is gone.
I think about the once-in-a-lifetime occasions that I did not figure out how to do until they were over. The less significant events like having an epiphany on the way to turning in a research paper, suddenly knowing that I had completely missed the point of the assignment, but now possessed the insight I would not have an opportunity to expound upon pales in comparison to details missed on the morning of my wedding, or what I should have done differently in the process of giving birth. I knew how to get better grades in school after I graduated with a grade point average that did not reflect my ability. Likewise I knew how to put on a wedding by the time ours was over and had finally learned the most efficient way of pushing out a baby by the time we were done adding children to our family.
It is only rarely in life that I have had the presence of mind to understand what is happening while it is going on. And sometimes right in the midst of life going well, I have had the sense that because I am doing what I love it is only logical that this could go on forever. And should. But it doesn't. Something happens. People change their minds. Unexpected scenarios rear their ugly head. The ladder that appeared so sturdy has broken rungs.
And I, like my nine-year-old self, am left standing in an old empty barn as the sun is setting and the wind turns cold. Not wanting to leave the game that had gone on seamlessly for hours, I walk slowly into the house to get ready to go back to the reality of a working farm, where I spend a great deal of time in the house to avoid getting sunburned or breaking out in a rash from the fertilizer.
There I find a different hiding spot and resume my adventures in my books.
The best place for hide and seek was Grandma's barn since by the time my sisters, cousins and I were old enough to be allowed the freedom to explore outside of the house, there were no more horses or any other animals making their home there. A chute where hay could be dropped into a stall became a passageway we would learn to maneuver as well as the ladder that led to the hay loft. A big, old barn can provide hours of fun for those able to create the right game. There was no better place to hide or to seek.
We naturally divided up into teams and even though I can admit to the unfairness of this now, my cousin, Michael, and I were the oldest so we would choose to work together to outsmart the younger ones and win every time. We were in charge. We created a version of the game and made up the rules to suit ourselves. The younger children would follow us and try to keep up even though we were always dodging them.
It seemed that each time we had figured out a new twist to the game that would make it even more challenging, and we would have barely worked out the finer points of this new, improved version, the unmistakable sound of my mother's voice, calling us back into the old farmhouse of her youth, would echo through our made-up world and we would have to reveal our hiding places and go home.
There was always the hope that we would come back and it would be better the next time. I remember waiting for that to happen. But then came the day of the auction when everything of value was sold. Eventually the house my mother grew up in became someone else's home. My last memory was finally getting to go into the attic and playing with what would have been considered antique toys even then--the kind that were made out of metal and wood and required imagination, not batteries.
We would take a drive out on the dirt roads by the old house whenever my mother felt like reminiscing, but someone either was not careful in the kitchen or the house was struck by lightning. In any case, it burned to the ground. Michael, the cousin I most looked forward to seeing at my mother's family gatherings, died too young.
To make the discovery of whatever it is that makes my heart sing is a glorious feeling. At last, I have found something I can put all my energy into, I tell myself. From this point on, I have a new goal, a new outlook on life, a new calling. I see life in a whole new way. It transcends words shining through my smile and my near-sighted eyes. Feeling more powerful I take up running again. I make an effort to reveal my heart to prospective friends. I tell myself it is going to be different this time. From now on.
It is then my natural inclination to try to hold onto this feeling, this hope, this dream as tightly as I can for fear that it will get away from me like a balloon filled with helium whose tiny string playfully slips through my fingers. I make a mad scramble to hang on with everything I have got. And then it is gone.
I think about the once-in-a-lifetime occasions that I did not figure out how to do until they were over. The less significant events like having an epiphany on the way to turning in a research paper, suddenly knowing that I had completely missed the point of the assignment, but now possessed the insight I would not have an opportunity to expound upon pales in comparison to details missed on the morning of my wedding, or what I should have done differently in the process of giving birth. I knew how to get better grades in school after I graduated with a grade point average that did not reflect my ability. Likewise I knew how to put on a wedding by the time ours was over and had finally learned the most efficient way of pushing out a baby by the time we were done adding children to our family.
It is only rarely in life that I have had the presence of mind to understand what is happening while it is going on. And sometimes right in the midst of life going well, I have had the sense that because I am doing what I love it is only logical that this could go on forever. And should. But it doesn't. Something happens. People change their minds. Unexpected scenarios rear their ugly head. The ladder that appeared so sturdy has broken rungs.
And I, like my nine-year-old self, am left standing in an old empty barn as the sun is setting and the wind turns cold. Not wanting to leave the game that had gone on seamlessly for hours, I walk slowly into the house to get ready to go back to the reality of a working farm, where I spend a great deal of time in the house to avoid getting sunburned or breaking out in a rash from the fertilizer.
There I find a different hiding spot and resume my adventures in my books.
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