Walking back from the bus was something I loved.

It wasn't anything special. I would run out of the school after the last bell and get on the bus, route #8, hustling to be sure I got a seat to myself (although I often had to end up sharing one anyways). I knew no one on my bus, so during the ride I would often listen to music and keep to myself.

The ride alone was enjoyable. For twenty minutes I would listen to whatever fit my fancy, depending on how I was feeling. This was an amazing experience on a rainy day, whether I was in a good mood or bad, just because rain can do that. It can make you feel cozy, gloomy, mysterious. I've always loved the rain.

We were the first stop. I was often one of the first people off the bus, always thanking the driver before walking off. The dirt road expanded in both direction, continuing into woods on my right and meeting the main road half a mile down on the left. Cars were usually waiting at the stop—those lucky kids whose parents actually drove them home. Although I lived farthest from the stop, I never got a ride.

I would let my music go on, often too lost in my thoughts to pay attention to the song, so long as the rhythm was what I felt like that day. I wouldn't ever look behind but would walk on. If it was a warm fall or spring day, I would take off my shoes and hold them by the ankles in one hand, walking barefoot across the pavement.

Crossing through the neighbor's yard was the easiest way to cut the corner. The person who lived there was single, older, and generally nice from what I've heard, though I'd personally never met him. I'd walk up his driveway and walk between his yard and the other neighbor's before arriving in my backyard. I'd often break into a run here, so eager to be over the walk, or just excited for the rest of the day. I'd run around to the garage, put the code in, and go inside.

Of course, the magic ended here. Sure, I still had my music and my thoughts. But I was back indoors, not out in the open air, the haze of the school day worn off. I was always sad to walk inside regardless of what I was or wasn't looking forward to. Those walks seemed like a hassle, but they were really a beautiful thing, a small portion of my day I never thought of or acknowledged, but important all the same.

*Names have been changed for privacy*

When my brothers and I were little, we liked to play the treasure game. Just typing the title makes me smile.

Our staircase was curved, making a ninety-degree turn by the time you traveled its length. It was the wall of an open foyer, looking down onto our wood floor that met the front door of the house.

As soon as our dad agreed to our pleas to play the game, the three of us would scatter to our bedrooms and pick out our 'treasures,' usually one or two apiece. I often chose a stuffed animal or a ball, while my brothers would choose a dinosaur or a car. We would bring our items down into the foyer and set them on the rug in front of the door, then run back up the stairs and look over the railing excitedly. My dad would come from the dining room, hunched over, arms out, and say in a gravelly voice, "Ohhhh boy, ohhhh boy. Treasures and treasures, ohhhh boy." He would pick up the items we'd laid out, purposely dropping one (he always made it look so accidental). He would head back towards the dining room, but just before he left, he'd turn around and wave his hand in the air, growling, "I better not find anyone stealing my treasures." Then he would turn out the lights and disappear.

Our mission was to get the treasure without getting caught, and gradually we worked out a system. Mark would be the risk-taker, the first to venture down the stairs ever so quietly. He would grab the treasure and run back up—if he could. More often than not, the 'troll' would come out of the shadows and grab him. His punishment? Tickling.

Then I'd come in and jump on the troll's back, or Carl would, or both of us. With new attackers, the troll would be distracted, going for Carl or I while Mark managed to get away and scramble back up the stairs. While any of us could venture into the troll's territory and circle the downstairs before returning (my preference, for the best effect of the game) we could also run right to the stairs if the path was clear. Either way, we made it back, trying not to get caught ourselves. The troll, realizing he'd been outwitted, would be fuming as he set out another treasure. Meanwhile, we laughed and squealed from above, proud of our accomplishment and eager for another mission.

This would repeat until all the treasures were gone (or someone got hurt). I hated—and still do hate—being tickled, so while the rolls switched around a little, we basically kept to these positions most of the time. Of all the games we played as kids, this was by far the best of them all.

                I’ve lived in my home for most of my life, but once upon a time, I lived in a different state, in a small blue house, out in the country.

                The memories I have from this house are vague, as I was not even four at the time. Over all, I think I remember more of the emotions I had rather than the things I did. But I do remember a little.

                First, there was an old, above-ground pool in the backyard. We swam in it a couple times, and me being a natural swimmer from the start, I absolutely loved the water. But my best memory of the pool had nothing to do with swimming. One day my dad said he wanted to show me something.  We slowly walked to the backyard, him cautioning me to be quiet. We came within view of the pool and there, sitting against the side, was a swan. She had a nest, I believe, but I don’t remember ever seeing the eggs. Later on I was told something—a fox, maybe—came and destroyed the nest.

                A favorite activity of mine was to go the neighbor’s house. They were an older couple, and we are still friends with them today.  Their house was the ideal grandparents’ house, with a cozy, homey atmosphere. There was a lot of needlework hung up on the walls, and everything was neat and organized. This was based on only seeing the kitchen and the living room. However, I was curious, and one day after leaving the bathroom I went down the hall on my own. I peeked into the first room I came across and saw—teddy bears. A ton of them. They were sitting on chairs, on the floor, on shelves. I was awed, and had I not been so afraid of being caught, I would’ve gone in and determined which one was my favorite.

                In our backyard or the neighbors’ there were blackberries. Fresh blackberries were amazing, and there was nothing better than finding a juicy one, popping it in your mouth, and enjoying its sweetness. Nothing sold in a grocery store could compare to that.

                We had a small sandbox by the porch (although it really wasn’t much of a sandbox at all). I would always walk along the border and try my best not to lose my balance.

                When you walked through the back door, there was a certain smell. I have absolutely no idea what it was—the wood, the carpeting in the room it led into, I’m not sure. I just know that I loved that smell, and if I came across it today I would recognize it in an instant.

                The top floor of the house was nearly covered in fluffy, pink carpet. My brothers’ room had fluffy blue carpet, the kind you can bury your fingers in.

                It’s on my bucket list to be able to live in this house again. I doubt it will ever happen, but it would be amazing if it did.

Often in portrayed in movies is the classic childhood wrongdoing, where a kid does something bad—on purpose or not—and goes to lengths trying to cover up the deed. I can think of two instances when I was in this situation, and although I felt horrible when they happened, they still make me smile.

I was in the kitchen one day, trying to put dishes in the dishwasher, an easy chore I actually enjoyed doing. A plate shifted in the sink, and I heard a crack. Lifting it up, I was horrified to see that I'd broken our spoon rest. Unsure of what to do, I picked up the two biggest pieces and hid them under the couch in the piano room. Funny how my plans ended there, as if couches could make all my problems go away.

A few days later, my dad told me my mom had found the broken spoon rest while vacuuming. I hung my head and pleaded guilty, knowing that lying wouldn't help anything (mostly because I was the only one old enough to do such a thing). My dad suggested I buy her a new one for Mother's Day, and I was very, very glad to do so. I never saw the old spoon rest again… we still have the new one by our stove today.

Another time, I wanted to get my dad something for his birthday. My mom gave me a small box of candy, telling me to hide it in my room until his birthday, which was a few days away. I gratefully took the candy and hid it in the best place I could think of—behind my door. Unfortunately, candy is delicious, and I found the urge irresistible. I opened the box and ate a few pieces. It wasn't until my pleasure had faded that I realized what I'd done. How could I give my dad an open box of candy?

I'm pretty sure I tried to tape the box shut, but was unsatisfied in that it didn't look brand new. In the end, I confessed to my mom and she got me a new box of candy. The thought of opening it disgusted me, and I was able to give my dad his gift, unopened.

                While it’s common to deliberately make bad decisions when you’re a kid, it’s also very common to make mistakes and poor choices. This is all part of the maturing experience—it’s just how we learn right from wrong. But that doesn’t mean the results escape our memories. Isn’t that what memories are, results?

                Our basement was unfinished—it smelled of cool cement and wood. There was no carpet but what we occasionally laid down ourselves, and you could see the insulation bulging from the rafters between the pipes overhead. Metal poles, extending from the floor to the ceiling, enforced the support beams scattered throughout the open space.

                We had one of those little kid cars, the ones where there were wheels but you moved it with your feet. The doors opened, the wheel turned, and there was a roof over the seats, making it seem so real. I think it even had room in the back for pretend luggage.

                Goofing off one day, I was in the car and my brother was standing on top. He was holding onto one of the metal poles to keep his balance. Without thinking, I jerked the car and giggled… until my brother started screaming. He’d hit his head on the pole (did he fall off? Don’t remember) and was crying hard.

                My mom came down, got the story, and took him upstairs. A while later, he was still crying, and my mom prepared to take him to the hospital. Our neighbors—a woman with kids our age whom we often babysat—came over and took my other brother and I to her house. It was chaotic and scary, and I really just wanted the whole thing to be over.

                The last thing I remember is sitting on our neighbor’s couch in a home I wasn’t familiar with, watching a TV show I’d never seen. I was tired and wondering why my mom was taking so long, since it was long past dinner and approaching bedtime. Eventually, I assume, our dad came and got us.

                I don’t remember when I found this out, but in the end I was told my brother had had a concussion. He’s had migraines ever since, maybe a few every year. I wonder if I’m responsible—although I’ve been assured that I’m not. But it could be true since he never had migraines before hitting his head.

                Guess I’ll never know.

                I began laughing out loud just thinking about this memory. It has to be one of my all-time favorites.

               My brother Carl is a witty, smart, sarcastic kid who puts up a tough-kid attitude and, despite using me as his verbal target, is fun to be around. We don't often get along, but every once in a while we have our moments.

                One day we got bored. Like, really bored. We were both lazing around downstairs, not doing much. I think Carl had a headache or something, because for whatever reason he had a bottle of ibuprofen pills. We began tossing it back and forth, but that apparently wasn’t enough. We took it to a whole new level—baseball. The bottle of pills was our ball, and for a bat we used a Bop-It game (for those who don’t know what that is, it’s like the handles of a bicycle but with knobs on the ends and a big button in the middle). Carl was batting and I was pitching, flinching every time I threw it for fear of him whacking it hard and hitting me in the face.

                Eventually this fear became too much for me, so we moved from the living room. Carl stood in the kitchen, and I was in the hallway, the distance between us now lengthened significantly. Our game got a lot more fun then, and I was really enjoying it…

                I think we all have a sixth sense, like when you know the teacher is going to call on you or when you just know which number the dice is going to land on. As I pitched the pill bottle right then, this sixth sense kicked in. I let it go, Carl hit it—and it broke open.

                Powder was everywhere. We’d shaken up the bottle so much that most of the pills had been grounded to powder, and now it was all over—on the counter, the floor, the desk, the table. Carl and I just looked at each other in shock and disbelief before bursting out into laughter.

                Knowing our mom would return soon, we quickly sprang into action and cleaned up all the powder. Carl vacuumed, I wiped, and in the end, it looked like nothing had happened. However, later that night our mom picked something up off the desk and discovered some of the powder underneath. We reluctantly confessed, but shooting knowing grins at each other as we cleaned up the mess.

                Mischief doesn’t get any better than this.