novel writing assignment #2

Assignment #2
January 12, 2011

My earliest memories revolve around my childhood home and the surrounding area. I grew up in rural British Columbia, about a twenty minute drive into the countryside from a medium sized city of 80,000 people. My childhood was spent largely outdoors, exploring first the backyard, and later the woods around the neighborhood. Countless hours were spent playing hide and seek with the neighbors and my younger sister, building forts, hunting for frogs, or just exploring deeper and deeper into the woods and around the ponds. My mother came searching for me more than once when I failed to show up for lunch, dragging me out of the woods and lecturing me the whole way home.

I remember a particular summer morning, perhaps an August day. A friend and I were hunting for frogs around a pond that lay hidden in the forest across the road from my house. Engrossed in the hunt, we failed to notice the clouds rolling in, and got caught in a warm summer downpour. Rather than going home and getting dried off, we took shelter under the remains of a broken canoe that was on the shore. We were so caught up in our adventure that we were extremely late getting home. We walked out onto the road in the middle of the afternoon, just in time to here our mothers calling for us. They had been out for several hours searching for us in the rain, and they were soaked to the bone (they obviously did not have the sense to hide under a canoe), and mad as hornets. I do not remember what happened after that, although I can be sure it was not good.

Another favorite memory took place on a different summer day with the same friend. We rode our bikes to Beaverly Creek to spend the afternoon fishing; one of many trips to one of our favorite places. This was a good ten kilometer or better bike ride; no small excursion for a couple of nine or ten year old boys. We gathered our rods and a few pieces of tackle, checked that my mother’s watch was safely tucked deep into my pocket, mounted our bikes and set out on the road. It took well over an hour to get there and even longer to fight the hills on the way home. A wonderful afternoon was spent fishing in the creek, and Brian even caught one of the lazy spawning rainbow trout, a rare occurrence for us. We explored the underbrush that lined both banks of the meandering creek, skipped rocks, built a dam, did everything except look at the watch that my mother had entrusted to my care in the hopes that I would actually come home on time. Despite being a couple of ex-boy scouts, we had failed to bring any drinking water with us, and were both getting thirsty by this time. We knew enough to not drink the creek water without boiling it first, and luckily for us, Brian had some matches in his pocket, just in case. We built a small fire, found a container in the woods that we rinsed in the creek before filling it and placing it in the fire. Just then my mother pulled off the road, eyes wide and mouth first open in shock at the sight of the fire, then pulled tight in a look of anger that will forever put a knot in my belly. Despite being late for dinner and the dusk coming on fast, she made us ride our bikes home, and did not even take our rods for us. In hindsight, I think that my memories of these days are somewhat fonder than my mother’s.