The Beating

"Chigger!" My mother hollered from inside the shed. "Why don't you go outside and play? I don't want you spending all summer moping around the house."

"I'm outside Mama." Looking down my nose as I sat on the front porch step, taking careful aim at the black ants that crawled around my shoes. "It's hot out here."

"Well, go play in the shade then." Her voice had a struggle to it.

" Shade, what shade?" I uttered under my breath. Direct hit! That'll teach that ant.

The shade my mother referred to was the last three pieces of tin that had somehow managed to stay attached to the porch last spring during a tornado. We weren't fortunate enough to have all three pieces in a consecutive order, instead they were all scattered about. One at each end, the third in the middle. I spent most of my childhood scooting along the porch trying to stay out of the smoldering Mississippi Delta heat.

"I'm in the shade Mama and it's still hot." Another direct hit. The sweat pouring from my forehead, flowing past my brow and down to the tip of my nose where it would bead up before I released it to the army of intruders below.

"Well, go do something. It's nice out and the exercise will do you some good!" my mother exclaimed.

"I am doing something Mama." The ants scurrying about avoiding the barrage of sweat bombs coming their way.

"He's just sitting there staring at his feet again Mama." A voice came from behind the rusty old screen of my little sister's bedroom window.

"I'm gonna knock your head if you don't...." Losing concentration for a split second, allowing more ants to make it into the crack of the step.

"Chigger, you be nice to your little sister!," my mother had to remind me again. "Why don't the two of you play a game?"

"You better be nice to your little sister like Mama said." The witch, as I liked to think of her, peering out from behind the Tweety bird bedsheet my mother used as a curtain for her window.