In the dog days of summer,back when I still believed in everything,my feet would hit the floor soon as I woke up, anxious to get the day started.
My long skinny legs would fly down the steps two at a time, eager to escape home and run up th(more)e street,where my playground awaited me.
I had a Kingdom to run.
Mom wouldn't let me out until I ate breakfast, usually two fried eggs and a piece of toast were enough to keep her happy.
As I'd soak up the last of the runny yellow yolk with the final piece of crust, Mom would make me lunch to go.
Food was the least of my priorities but my folks were always nagging at me to eat.
"I can't even see you when you turn sideways,"my Dad would joke. He'd try to entice me with milkshakes and ice cream I'd pretend to eat, anything to get out.
I had places to be.
"Put something on your feet,"Mom would shout after me as my barefeet slapped against the pavement.
Selective hearing was a trick I learned from my Dad.
Just half a block away and there it was.
An endless Kingdom to me, claypits to the rest of the world.
Desert-like sand beneath my feet and mountains of clay piled high, everything surrounded by woods and ponds and magical places seen only by those brave enough to let their imagination steer the way.
There was one special crevice I claimed as my own. I'd chip away at the clay meticulously,shelves to store my lunch and any treasures I'd find. And always, my radio.
Reluctant to leave my domain,I'd always make it home to help with dinner and cleanup before I'd dash outside again. Freedom once more, at least until the streetlights came on.(less)