Tar

The oil truck had finished laying down its yearly coating of thick gooey tar, and the road that ran past our house, beckoned to my little brother and me. The road looked like a sheet of glass, and I am sure in our three and four-year-old minds a ride down that road would be like riding on a cloud. So off we went, pedaling along on a sunny summer afternoon, looking forward to the adventures that awaited us. Down to the end of the road where our older brothers and sisters and their friends always rode their bikes, about a quarter of a mile away. We had heard talk of forts in the trees down there, where the road edged along the cemetery. Surely, we were big enough now to go there on our trikes and share in some of those adventures.

We started with the energy and enthusiasm that comes from youth and inexperience. A mere twenty feet from the end of the driveway, pedaling had become difficult. A few feet further, and we were at a dead stop. The only thing to do was to dismount and drag our trikes back home.

In the summer while growing up, we spent a good portion of the time running around barefoot. Shoes got in the way of wading in ditches and running through sprinklers. By the end of summer, our feet were tough enough that we could walk across the gravel driveway as easily as if we were wearing shoes. My brother and I had begun our adventure barefoot.

We were about half way up the driveway to the house, when suddenly the sun disappeared, and the day grew dark and gloomy. Our mother was standing on the porch by the back door with an expression on her face that mirrored the thunderclouds that had suddenly appeared. We froze in our tracks, knowing without a word from her that we were in big trouble. She went back into the house and came out a while later with two of our older sisters as well as a bucket of soapy water in which floated a couple of scrub brushes.

The four of us went to a corner of the yard we called "the three aspens". We had spent many hours playing under those three trees on long summer days, as well as many a night lying in our sleeping bags listening to their leaves rustling in the breeze. By the time we arrived at the three aspens, the wind had picked up and thunder was booming in the distance. My brother and I sat on the grass while an attempt was made to clean the tar off our feet. And to this day, I feel if I had the choice of facing my mother's wrath over our tar covered feet in the safety and warmth of the house or sitting under the three aspens worrying about getting caught in a thunderstorm, I would choose the three aspens every time.