Unearthed Jewel No. 8 (I think)…

BASE! A word heard often in the summer. I remember playing tag growing up. My mind especially goes back to humid summer days at my grandparent’s neighborhood. It was was more like a family community than a neighborhood. There were always cousins, distant cousins, and other family members around. If you were not related, you might as well have been. Even if some of the family had moved off, they always came to this community what seemed like most days. They would bring their kids with them. Most of the wives did not work. Therefore, while their husbands were working, this was their and their children’s gathering spot. The community was made up of quilt makers, garden growers, crafters, hunters, Bibles, and porch swings. Us kids were an eclectic bunch. In common, we were country, tough, had manners, and feared God, switches, and belts. We were Gen Xers and told to stay out of the house for most of the day. We were always teetering on the early stages of dehydration but none the less, a game of tag is one thing you could count on that would break out at some point. Even though we were all wandering around the community somewhere– up to who knows what, it was inevitable that the plethora of us would end up centrally located in my great grandmother’s yard for a serious game of tag. This was the tag location, and Tag meant War! Each man for himself. We learned a lot about life with tag. First, We never underestimated one another. We knew that there were days the youngest could outrun the oldest. Therefore, there was no mercy given. If you happened to wear flip flops that day…you should have known better. Tough! If you had a broke arm, there was not a head start given! You came as you were and played as you were. We had base parameters around the yard. The bases included, my great grandmother’s porch, the large tree with dark brown shaggy bark, and a huge rock in the yard that seemed to emerge from the earth. There was a large cave on my grandparent’s property. The land all around had rocks that protruded from the earth. One of which made the perfect base on which to rest for a few minutes to catch your breath. I can see and still feel the textures of these sanctuaries in my mind today. They were fixtures that were always constant and everyone knew them. If you ran down the big hill to keep yourself from getting tagged, the game then became, “king of the hill” for you until you were tagged or made it to a base. The only way that we stopped a game of tag in it’s entirety was if we were called home. The slushy truck was reason for a pause in the game. I have no idea why anyone would come all the way out in the country for us kids when there were real neighborhoods elsewhere, but we were sure happy this driver did! A little song would play and we all dropped what we were doing and started digging the coins we stole from our parents the night before. Hurriedly getting coins out of our shoes, socks, pockets etc. We ran to the edge of the yard and waited on what seemed like the most beautiful truck in the world to emerge and stop for us. The loud twinkling music box melody would play while a large, grizzly, hairy, unwashed man would exit a white, rusty small pickup. He was always smoking a cigarette and said very few words. Grunts or syllables, really. Selecting our flavor was crucial. Which would it be: cherry, bubblegum, grape, or watermelon? We would watch him fill a cup with ice and pump the flavoring from one of the many white opaque containers from the back of the rusting truck. His dirty fingernails, a contrast to the pure white Styrofoam cup, would transfer a cup into our hands. We didn’t care. We would kill for a slushy! I don’t remember ever speaking more than my flavor choice to him, for I was laser focused on getting my slushy. This sugary drink would hydrate my thirsty soul. Pain was clear in the eyes of us whom had forgotten our money. That was just the way it was. If you had mercy and spared a sip of your drink, you watched the sipper like a hawk. “Not to much,” and “That’s enough,” were impatient phrases stated during a time of generous sharing. Lightly colored Watery leftovers would sometimes be given to the ones who forgot to swipe change from their parent’s change bowls the night before. After a sugary break, we would resume our game of tag by going right back to the very spot we were in the game when the music was first heard. Sometimes a debate would break out about the distance one was from a sacred base. Majority ruled but if an argument emerged, it was understood and established who was diplomatic in the group thus whom to believe. Looking back, I now realize that in our little community, we were learning a lot about life with this game of tag and slushies. We learned that your success might depend on the choice of shoes you made that morning when getting dressed. Choices made an impact on your performance. We knew that if you stayed on the base too long and never got back in the game, you lost respect from the group. Staying in a safe spot and never taking chances, never lead to being a winner. Safe spaces and rest are much needed in life, but getting in the game and taking odds are what brings about victory and respect. Running down the hill might get you away from your opponent. An escape for a minute, but might cost you a bigger battle in the long run. Finally, Some people share and some do not. Some give and some just take. A number will never share their sugar, no matter how many times you share with them. Being prepared and taking care of yourself is the only way to guarantee a cheery flavored cup of ice.