1963 Pontiac Grand Prix
I am lying underneath the car, loosening a bolt on somewhere on the undercarriage. The car is lifted up on jacks, and its wheels are missing. I loosen the bolt for what seems like an hour, but it doesn't seem to be any looser. My arms get tired, and I have to put them down and let them rest. A cool breeze blows under the car. It is a mid fall Saturday afternoon, and I am 17. Because the hood is open, I can see past the engine block and various mechanical parts through to the sky above. I can also see the top of the magnolia tree that sits next to our drive way as it sways in the wind. I look to my left. I get a close up view of the nut and bolt I unscrewed before this one. I see an ant, and I consider squishing it. My dad is at the back of the car, fixing something himself. I look at the bolt again. It is way too rusty to pull off with this wrench. Once again, some seemingly small job on this car has turned out to be way bigger than we thought.
Folk Art Festival
I am standing on a dirt road at some park somewhere in Georgia. White tents line each side of this road, filled with stupid, boring art. I am around 8 years old, and I would rather be anywhere but here. My parents are looking in one of the white tents, examining each poorly made piece of art individually. My dad remarks that one of the objects is cool, and my mom agrees. It doesn't look that interesting to me; in fact, everything at this stupid festival looks the same. There is a tent filled with figures and objects made of scrap metal behind me. Next to it is a tent full of paintings that I could probably have made myself. Above my head are the tops of the giant trees filling this park, providing well needed shade. It is summer, and it is hot. In my hand is a half-full slushy drink. All the delicious flavored water is gone, and all that is left is the ice. I eat the ice anyway because I am really thirsty. My feet are tired and I am bored. My parents finish looking at the art in the tent. If I'm lucky, we'll leave soon; at the very least, we should pass one of those tents filled with wooden handmade toys.
Lifeguarding
I am sitting in the lifeguard stand, in an uncomfortable plastic chair. Above me is an umbrella, providing the bare minimum of shade. The sun is in front of me, so the umbrella only gives shade to the top half of my body. It is the middle of summer in Georgia, and it is hot. A cool breeze blows by, giving me brief break from the heat. In front of me is the crystal blue swimming pool. A group of moms float and talk while they're kids struggle to barely keep their heads above water. One kid jumps off the side. Another group of kids have built of fort out of kickboards. I'd ask them to put the kickboards back so that other swimmers can use them, but I honestly don't care. To my left are the lap lanes, and the lap swimmers. They swim back and forth slowly, like they do every hour of every day that the pool is open, no matter the weather. Off in the distance a giant storm cloud taunts me with its lack of thunder. If it would only thunder once, I would get an extra break, and all the swimmers would have to leave. I look to my right, and see a giant group of kids approaching the pool. Great. Now the pool will be twice as crowded. I silently curse the sky.
The Creek Behind My Elementary School
I am standing in the middle of the creek, on a sunny Spring afternoon. There is a sandbar that goes most of the way across the creek. On my left is the main stream, and on my right are several smaller streams. On the embankment on my left is the bamboo forest, and directly opposite that is the playground. Above me is the canopy of the trees, providing more than adequate shade. The creek runs in the direction I am facing, and it is filled with broken chunks of concrete and fallen trees. Somewhere is a tire filled with concrete, with a metal pole stuck in the middle, which was no doubt one half of a volleyball net at some point. My friends are next to me, building structures in the sand. We are attempting to force the stream to go where we want it to go by placing rocks, sand, and mud in its path. We build makeshift dams and structures. If we are lucky, they may still be there tomorrow. There is a tree across this part of the stream, providing a natural bridge. Along one side of the creek are the rusty remains of a fence that undoubtedly prevented kids like us from doing what we are currently doing.
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