As a child from the time I was six, I spent every summer with my grandparents on their farm. My first summer there I was selected for a special honor. Old man Hill picked me for it.

"You lead this here mule, or you ride it. Keep it going steady in a circle. Keep th’ press arm goin’. Back n’ forth…back n’ forth. My boy there needs a steady rhythm t’ feed th’ bailer," he pointed to a green eyed young man in his late teens, leaning on a pitchfork, grinning. "You mind him now, ya hear?"

We bailed hay for three days, green eyes always on me. Some how they made me think of a snake I once saw, but I told myself they were saying, "Good job."

The next summer, at seven, I helped with the hay bailing and harvest once again. I never saw Green Eyes. When I asked Grandpa, he simply said, "He’s away for a spell."

At eight, I started roaming the fields and woods in a radius of two or three miles from my grandparents old gray house. I raced imaginary opponents up and down the red earth road in front. I fished in the muddy tank at the back of their pasture. I swam in Rock Creek, and roamed the hollow, as Boy, son of Tarzan and Jane. Sometimes, when the urge became so strong I couldn’t resist, I became Tarzan just long enough to bellow his yell. Often it came out squeaking and I blushed and giggled. I shinned up persimmon saplings and swung them in an arch just above the ground at each point. And when I became bored with roaming, I tracked Grandpa to whatever field he was plowing. I would sit on the ground, chin in hands, watching the earth turn, inhaling the rich aroma.

Occasionally, Grandpa would stop Old Blue, wipe his forehead with his shirt sleeve, then motion for me to come. Without a word, I would slip under the reins and take the plow handles. Grandpa always wrapped his hands around mine. Bare foot and bare headed, my body became a connection between earth and sky. At times, Grandpa would rein Blue to the left or right, slightly, so I could call out, "Haw, Blue," or "Gee, Blue." We both knew he caused the maneuver but it was an unspoken bond between us.

When he was ready to take over, he called out, "Whoa, Blue." Then I slipped from between the reins and, grinnin’ big, met my Grandpa’s blue-gray eyes.

That spring, I had forgotten about Green Eyes, until I spotted him peering out the window of his house as we made out Saturday walk into town. 

For some unknown reason, the look on his face made me shiver.

There are experiences and acts in our lives that define us, that build a foundation for everything we become. They are often conflicting. They tear at each other, struggling for dominance. 

Freedom to roam. Freedom to dream, to imagine, to explore, to build castles out of clouds, to become, at least for a time, the heroes who inspire us. And with this freedom, to know the unfaltering, often unspoken love and acceptance of those we hold dear. These things furnace a mirror for our self-image that can never be shattered.

The day was sunny, full of bird songs, and the dry, haunting sounds of the male katydid. The hollow between Grandpa’s house and the brown house on the hill was my jungle. There I built my fantasy worlds and fashioned my dreams. On an impulse, I decided that I needed to make some kind of mark there to let everyone know it was my private territory. No one should enter without permission. After a little thought, I took a hammer and a can of roofing nails from the shed. In the hollow, I selected a large elm tree, the one I called my crows nest because I could see most of the surrounding country from its top. I pounded my initials into the trunk with the nails. 

Then I leaned back and started a dream.

Suddenly, Green Eyes slipped from behind a bush, snakelike, coiled to strike.

The End