On a warm spring afternoon, with my school bag swung over my shoulder, I took a leisurely walk home from Forest Elementary School, shuffling my suede Thom McAn’s along the sidewalk. I was sweating profusely in corduroy pants and my thick down jacket — it would be a few weeks until my mom dug the warm weather clothes out of the attic and I was stuck in hot, stuffy attire every day until then. Alone, drifting in the thoughts of my young third grade mind (probably thinking of that girl in my class I thought was “super pretty”), it was the end of a typical school day, which would likely include plopping down in the yellow rocker when I got home to watch The Bugaloos or Speed Racer while munching on raw spaghetti noodles (the only snack left in the house). Then I heard them coming up behind me and my life would change forever.

In unison, I heard chanting, like an army of two marching on a hike, their shoes scrunching the pebbles and dried leaves on the ground.

Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch.

“We were at the beach,

(Yeah, yeah)

Everybody had matching towels.”

Spinning around I saw two older boys jogging my way, each wearing broad smiles and the exuberance of youth. One I recognized as Dave G-, who had been in Cub Scouts with me two years previous. My lasting memory of Dave was the question he asked while our scout pack visited the North Olmsted McDonalds. As our host, an overwhelmed manager in his 30s, wrapped up the tour of the fast food restaurant, he inquired if we, a small group of seven and eight-year olds, had any questions. Dave raised his hand. “Yeah, how do you make those wonderfully delicious French fries?” The manager seemed impressed and proceeded to deliver a long-winded, technical explanation of the frying process that rocketed over all of our heads. Soon thereafter, Dave left the pack. (more…)