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When our money ran out we stood around for a few minutes
watching other children have pony rides. Then Putzie brought us out of our western fantasy life by shouting, "The
last one to the Indian Rock is a rotten egg." I was the rotten egg, since I got a late start and even Tevie
beat me.
While the other three were climbing onto the rock, playing "Cowboys and Indians" I took off my sneakers
and socks and sat on the paving-stone lake rim. I dangled my feet into the cool water and by sliding slightly forward,
I could just reach the muddy bottom. The soft sliminess of the silted bottom was pleasantly sensuous as I moved
my feet in and out of it. The muddy waters coming up to the surface fascinated me.
I was shocked to hear a park attendant shouting at me, as he ambled in direction. I hastily withdrew from the water
and gathering up my sneakers and socks I ran part of the way up the hill. He stopped and pointed his long arm accusingly
at me and gruffly yelled at me, "What do you want to do? Get yourself drowned or something?" I retreated
a little further up the hill. With a grunt of disapproval and a dismissing wave of his hand, he moved off.
Resocked and reshod, I joined my friends by the rock. They were playing "Cowboys and Indians." Lobo and
Putzie were on top, "in the fort," and Tevie had been unsuccessfully storming it. I joined him and the
both of us were unsuccessful in getting to the top. I complained loudly that it wasn't fair so we switched. Tevie
and I were the brave defenders of the fort and Putzie and Lobo were the Indians. Somehow, they succeeded in getting
to the top.
I didn't care because we were having a great time. After a while we got tired of the game and we began to play
tag. When we tired of that game we walked to the end of the lake (that was about fifty yards wide and 25 across,)
where the rowboats were moored. We watched two couples take out two boats. We discussed the possibility of getting
a rowboat but realized that we couldn't, because we had no accompanying adult and we had no money.
We moved to a new part of the lake and began to skip flat stones across the surface, competing to see who could
get the most bounces. It was Putzie, of course. We watched a man fishing with a thin string and a u-shaped pin
for a hook. He had a ball of dough at his feet and he pinched off a piece, finger-rolled it into a little bait-ball
and put it on the end of his improvised hook. Then he threw it into the water.
Four times he pulled his line out of the water without the bait on it. Then it happened. The fifth time the line
jerked in the water. He pulled gently on it and then more strongly. With a swift motion he pulled his hook out
of the water and wiggling desperately on it was a two inch fish. He plucked the fish off his hook and put it into
a glass jar, half-filled with lake water. I watched the little darter in his glass jail, feeling sorry for it.
Somehow, watching the trapped fish reminded me of Norman and I reminded the group that we never got to the airport.
The rest of the group was just as surprised as I was that we had forgotten about it. We were hungry and it was
too late in the day to go on. We decided to make the trip on another day. Lobo looked towards home, saying that
it was late in the day and it was time to start back. Without waiting for the others I took off, shouting, "The
last one up the hill is a rotten egg." This time Tevie was the rotten egg.
For more, visit the Author's Web Site: Short Stories From a Long Life
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