Day 14: Our memories part one (AT HOME)

I remember that summer so well, I can still taste those cherries,the ones that were a bit sour if mostly ripe and would make us pucker up like those old aunts givin kisses to the little kids, if they was still green. You remember which ones, right? The ones we had spitting contests with where we spit the pit as far as it would go. You tried to teach me how to tie the stems into knots with my tongue, but if that really does say something about my kissing, well, lets just say it'd be less than good.
I remember lying there on that hill, the one we all always called our "pooh bear hill" 'cause it was just like the one in the hundred acre woods. The grass was soft as kitten fur and always smelled kinda sweet. We'd always roll down that one side and stand up at the bottom, only to fall over 'cause we were so dang dizzy. Do you remember the one time you kept on rollin', even when the ground was flat, just to see how far you could go? I remember, I also remember how you rolled right on into the stream. You'd been too dizzy and stubborn to understand that you'd got that far and rolled on in for a nice, cold bath. We all had a good laugh at that, you , Twig, Fire Bug, and me, SkyEyes. Even Ladyslipper, the silver cat, was laughing.
I remember that stream, too. A couple stone throws away from the cherrie tree on the hill, it was easy gettin' to, we spent so much time there. It was another one of our haunts, remember? We knew 'bout every inch o' that stream, from the Darkwood all the way to Jeferson's cow fence. Course we knew some o' that on his property, seeing as we'd go through that the fence. We had to be real careful 'bout that ,though. Old Jeff had a meaner streak then the devil, not that that stopped us crazie kids. We knew all the best swimmin' holes, 'long with all the shallow sections, smooth rock sections, sandy sections and pretty pebble sections. We'd spend half a day sometimes just pickin' up the different stones. We'd be the first to check the stream after a storm, see what new was dug up or found.
Member the Darkwood? I swear t' you, it never got light in there. You'd get lost ifin ya wasn't careful, and even WE respected the boundries it put up. Seems that wood had a mind and a spirit all it's own, It'd let you go in so far, then you couldn't go any farther. Brambles, big ol' trees whose branches were too high up to reach, foliage that tried to kill ya. Member when that dumb Metterson boy came in that one time? He couldn't get anywere near us for some reason. He never made it more 'n five feet in, broke an ankle and got a darn right nasty case o' poison ivy. Happened to other's too. Only we got close to the real center of the Darkwood, and we never went that far.
Member our tree fort? Your daddy wanted to build you one in your yard. Yeah I know that aint the prettiest topic to speak on, but it just shows ya how cool it was ya done this. Member how you sneaked them plans outa there for a while, copied 'em , and worked all summer long, just so you could pay for enough materials to build us a tree house. O' course, we helped ya build it, after ya got the stuff. That was our present to you, along with us helpin' decorate and clearing that spot on the trunk so we could carve our names. That was the day we officially left our old names behind, and got the ones we'd been using with each other since, well, forever.
I remember that too, no matter how many years before it was. It was when we were in first grade, that was the first time we'd met. It hadn't taken too long, we were best friends before November past.We were sitting Indian style in a circle, like we did everyday for first grade story time. We had lightning bugs in jars, they ,the stars, and the moon, our only illumination in that real dark, night sky. We chanted and danced our arms around, 'til we decided to begin. You went first, it was your right. You were the oldest (if not by too much). "NightStream!" You said it without hesitation. The thin, rather tall boy on your left cried "Twigg!",and though it was funny, it was fitting. The pudgy boy on my left called boldly into the night "FireBug!" , which just left me. "Eyes! Eyes?...that isn't it!" I felt the beginning of hot tears on my face, the only girl face there. I stuttered and tried, but I couldn't call out my name. You took my little hands into yours, looked me in the eyes, and together we said it. "SkyEyes!"
Those are the names we carved into that tree, the summer before seventh grade. Not Rosealine, Jessi, Barthalemeo, or Joseph, but SkyEyes, Twigg, FireBug, and NightStream, respectively. Do you remember? I do, and that's only the beggining of our story.


Another story in process. I know that it has rather bad grammar and spelling, it is SUPPOSED to be like that, it's the affect I was going for. It's supposed to be from the point of view of SkyEyes, a bit of a southerner, who grew up with three boys so her speech isn't very lady like or polished, more on the rough side. I'm not going to tell anything about why she's saying it as she did, but I'll tell you that this is partly for the reader's benefit.