The Lonely Old Man - Part III

Tale #1

The first event occurred three weeks after my thirteenth birthday. I was a summer child, having been born on the twenty-second of June, and as such, was oblivious to many things. Oh, I liked to think I was wise. But at the time I didn't even know of events. And certainly not the way I know them today. Events are quite the bane of my existence, do you know? But of course! That is why I'm telling you these things! This is the tale of my first event.
 
Thirteen-year-old me was an explorer. I dug for insects, ran after rabbits, climbed trees for the view, and broke my ankle twice in the attempt to fly. Mark my words: if ever you wish to fly, do not use chicken feathers and balsa wood. You'll break your ankle twice. However, even a white plaster cast could not halt my discoveries. I would simply color it with charcoal and then hobble back into the forest and fields.   
 
I often wandered to the Red River that passed by three miles from my home. Its banks were steep, with long grasses falling over their sides into the water. That is, the grasses grew on my side of the river. The opposite bank was flanked immediately by forest, and many of the smaller trees bent over and made V's in the water. Very rarely did the earth slope to meet the Red River. The nearest place it did so was a mile downstream from my part. A dirt road opened its wide mouth there, melding itself with the pebble beach.      
 
As I said, the first event happened three full weeks after my birthday. And it happened at the river Red. The sun was bright that day and pierced its rays through the forest ceiling. I ran down the road, accompanied by children both above and below my age. We leaped from one patch of sunlight to the next, half naked in the heat of the summer. There were near twenty of us there. Me, of course, and also Sand and George and Annie and Harold and Frances and Rosaline and Johnny and Thomas and Big Thomas and Gus and Aiden and Chet and Nance and Robby and MaryAnn and Laura and Luke and Lizzy.              
 
We were a noisy lot as we skipped away; the older ones tried to shout louder than the rest as to instate some sort of order. My brother, Sand, was the leader of this movement. He was my elder by two years, and mirrored our father in wiry build and bold auburn hair. I too had auburn hair then, but not the stature of my brother. Not only was he tall, he was also the strongest boy I knew. Admittedly, I was often jealous. But admiration was stronger, and so shown constantly on my face.       
 
"Almost there!" was the cry, even when we were a half mile from the river. Bare feet trod even quicker than before. As we neared the road's mouth, my brother shouted at George to untie the fabled rope swing from its bed in some high-up bough. He skipped once and leaped into a sprint, tearing off onto some forest trail.
 
To this day, I still remember how our swimming hole shone in the high afternoon sun. It seemed as though the stars of heaven had come to dwell on the surface of old Red, blinding us with every ripple and crease. We stood in a breathless jumble, our towels cast upon the lawn.
 
"He-e-ey O!" came a shout from above, and we turned to see George whiz over the grass and loop high into the air. Releasing the rope, he hovered a moment then flailed pathetically until disappearing into the river. 
 
A great whooping and hollering went up from the rest of us. Sand led the charge. I followed close behind, breathless with excitement and smiling from one ear to the other.