Please, try not to be jealous, but I used to have my own cave fort, conveniently located in a far corner of my parents’ backyard. Thought it felt palatial, the Fort was actually just the hollow underside of a large bush, an ugly piece of vegetation. Mostly sticks with a few leaves and some purple berries that smelled pretty weird. But it was excellent. A secluded place to hang out. A place where Nerf offensives were planned and hot dogs were eaten. A place where memories were made. Today and tomorrow, I offer you two of these memories.

The first involves one of the abundant sticks that made up the Fort’s ceiling. Louis and my friend Vicky and I were killing some time lounging under the odoriferous berries, trying to decide how we could squeeze more fun into what had already been a pretty satisfying Saturday. It was decided it would be best if Vicky could spend the night, just so we could ensure that each of us was a complete, cranky wreck for all of Sunday. I made the trek back to the house to ask my mom for permission. Against her better judgment she gave us the ok, to which I responded “SHE SAID YEAH!!!” and hauled ass out of the house, screaming my response for all to hear.

Happily spouting out ideas for our upcoming slumber party, I started down the hill at the edge of the yard. Normally, I’d take my time getting down the the little hill (I was afraid of falling down all four feet of it, you see) and then make a left at the bottom and enter the Fort, careful to move low-hanging branches out of my way. This time, my excitement overtook me, and I went flying at a full run down the hill, skidding to my left. I continued my stream of nonsense: “…and we could go to the store and get Cheetos and watch Zorro and put on a show and…”

What should have happened next was the simultaneous finishing of my sentence and entrance of the Fort, followed by feverish planning for an evening of junk food and very little sleep. What actually happened next was that I was silenced in the middle of my plans for our midnight snack, by a stick. Which I ran into. With my eye.

If you’ve never run full speed ahead into a branch with a delicate part of your face, I wouldn’t suggest starting now. Unless you’re like me and you think having a scabbed up black eye is cool. Let me tell you, it went over very well with my 2nd Grade peers. I told a few people the real story. I told a lot more people that I was in a fight. With a boy. And I won.

More on my compulsive lying in another post. In the meantime, tune in tomorrow for the second of my vivid Fort memories!

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