I Grew Up Brown County

When the nights get cooler and the dark comes sooner, my brother and I play in the light cast by the Security Light. A power line runs through the yard, and we play a game. The high, thick, black cord is our target. A small Nerf football, with little holes chewed in the sides, is lobbed back forth across the wire. You get points based on “over it,” “under it,” or “hit it!” You get the most points when you hit it. We play this game for hours. Talking about everything and nothing, all at once.

At Christmas, we got fake laptops. The kind that look like real computers but are really full of dumb learning games like Hang Man and a music maker. Instead of using it to learn math or “spot the noun,” we play like we are in Twister and we run behind the tool shed, dodging tornados and trying to calculate the next likely touchdown in our area. My brother got a Terminator doll – excuse me, action figure – for Christmas too. When you push the buttons he says, “Hasta la vista… babay” and “Aisle be bach.” His arm is plastic flesh, and you can see the machinery underneath the skin.

Someone, Mom or Dad, tied up an old tire to the side of the barn and I practice pitching to it. I hate practice. I always get tired, and then I get worse, and then they want to make me stay longer until I get better again. But I’m not going to get better. At least, not tonight. They keep making me pitch the ball at the tire, trying to hit it dead-center, right through the heart. Those are strikes. "Keep going until you get 10 strikes." I hate it.

When I’m not playing or practicing, I’m reading. I read everything. I get in trouble for it sometimes.

“Sarah, we’re going to watch this movie as family. Come inside right now or you won’t get to watch it at all,” they say.

“But I only have 2 chapters left!” Oh, the humanity!

“Fine. Stay out here and read, but don’t think you can come in and watch it with us later. You made your choice.”

But I don’t care if I miss the movie. I’m reading about someone far away from here, someone grownup and free and setting out on exciting adventures and falling in love. Who cares if there’s a ghost man who plays on the basketball team? The Sixth Man is a dumb name for a movie, anyway. You can’t have six players on the court at one time. Everybody knows that.

Okay, maybe I do kind of want to watch it. Too late. I chose the book and now I can’t go in. That’s what you get when you make choices around here. Stick-to-it-iveness. Even when it’s against your will. I sit and read by the light of the Security Light, content in this other world that I wish was mine. Somewhere far away...