The air horn blew loud and I woke up. I turned over and with narrow eyes looked over at a wind up alarm clock sitting on the bureau – its glowing green hands read: 6:47. Another morning, another dream interrupted, and Monday of all days. A school day. Now for whatever reason, my mind chose sunrise as the best time to get imaginative. And like all the other weekday mornings, it ended abruptly courtesy of the Union Pacific Railroad. As usual, I laid there listening to the rolling clamor and metal clanking fade into the distance until another familiar sound intruded – one almost as loud as the train.
“Mack! You up?"
"Yeah!!"
"Time to get up."
I discarded the bed linen and sat up, and sat there, and sat there, and then laid back down. I tried stealing a few more minutes. Suddenly, darkness vanished as bright sunbeams shined off the walls. She parted the dark curtains and blinds. I put the pillow over my head in a futile attempt to keep out the sun’s irritating radiance, and befriend the Sandman again, if only momentarily.
"Mack? Wake up!" Her voice resonated clear and close. Nancy Ivory, also known as Granny, or Mother Earth, as I fondly named her, stood large yet only five foot three in the bedroom doorway. Nancy could've been mistaken for an old Hippie, or some Bohemian type, with her chestnut skin in her decorative and brightly colored caftan, those open toed sandals, ankle and wrist jewelry, and two long French braids nearly touching the floor. She's not. Mother Earth was Native American, Chickasaw, from Mississippi, and proud of it. "Boy! I thought you were up. Get your butt out of bed. I'm not up for playing today. Let’s go. Speed is what you need. Now get up or I'll get you up. Is that what you want?”
“No, ma'am. No, I don’t.”
“Alright then. So get up and get ready for school.”
She departed and began her normal count down from ten. Pokko'li, chakka'li, ontochchi'na, ontoklo…a warning I better get up, and get up fast. Last time, she reached one (chaffa) and then came back and landed her short and stocky frame across mine, tickling me unmercifully. I laughed so hard I nearly emptied my bladder. Luckily, a series of protests and foul farts forced her to quit. To this day, my body cringes at the thought of being tickled. I liked it as much as dream-shattering air horns. So when she reached the three count (tochchi'na), I quickly sat up and then stood, still somewhat drowsy.
"I'm up. Happy now.”
“Yes.”
I ambled lazily into the bathroom. There, I handled my business except for combing my recently unbraided hair. Hair care came after getting dressed and before the bureau mirror. Soon the climate in the house changed, becoming more aromatic. Sniffing fresh percolated coffee generated hungry growls. So I sped up my hair grooming, having breakfast on the brain, and hurriedly picked out and hand-shaped a head full of kinky hair into a nice big, circular Afro. I should blame Mother Earth for having so much hair. She frowned on haircuts for biblical and cultural reasons, and as I grew up, it did as well. My Afro became so huge, friends said it looked like a dark halo behind my face, and gave the impression I favored a black cosmic angel.
"Good morning," she said, as I set foot in the kitchen. The window was open and a nice breeze circulated, making the curtains gust in and out, as if breathing.
"Morning."
"Sleep well?"
"I did until that train blew. It screwed up another dream just when it was getting good."
"What was this one about?"
"I met the astro-botanist, Carl Sagan, on some distant planet and together we gathered and named plant specimens."
"Astro what? Carl who? You watch way too much television, you do know that, don't you?"
"PBS?"
"PBS my foot. It wouldn't hurt to look at those encyclopedias every now and then. I spent a small fortune on them, you know."
"I know and I do use them, including those old Oxford Dictionaries."
“Just sit down and eat your breakfast.”
I pulled back the chair and sat. Mother Earth placed breakfast on the square cedar wood kitchen table: a bowl of Malt-o-Meal, topped with blackberries – taken off the front yard's fence line – brown sugar, butter, a half a cup of coffee, a glass of Tang, and goat's milk.
"Mack?" She began, a nickname given for my fondness and constant request for oven-baked macaroni and cheeses. "Have you heard about Mrs. William’s son, Gregory?"
"Heard what?"
"He's in the hospital. I found it out yesterday from Mrs. Hunter while talking across the fence."
I looked over my shoulder, giving a wry smile, and thinking good. Since I never liked him anyway. Not one bit. I mean, who likes a bully? Nobody I know. I couldn’t stand him. He tormented people regularly and soon made it his business to get into mine, focusing his attention on my homemade insect and animal traps scattered throughout the community's woodlands. I enjoyed catching and releasing anything that slithered, flew, crawled, or bounced. Somehow, Greg learned about what I did as fun and considered it as fair game.
"Really?"
"That's right. Something got him good. That's why I worry about you when you're running around out there alone. It's news like that. I know you're trying to become this Carl fellow, but do your Grandma a favor, and put nature exploration on hold for a while."
"Because of him? I don't know, Granny?"
"Mrs. Hunter never said what attacked him, but whatever it is might hurt you."
"I doubt it. Unlike him, I have a connection with nature and a healthy respect for it."
"I just know something out there sent him home soaking wet and covered in nasty green swamp slime. Mrs. Hunter also said: "Greg had bumps all over his body.'"
"Really!"
"That's not funny."
"Yes it is. I can picture his fat butt running, arms flailing, and screaming, before he jumped into that pond."
"And how would you know that?"
"He must've found that yellow jacket nest."
"Yellow jackets!"
"Yeah, yellow jackets. I've been studying them for the last month."
"Studying them?"
“Yeah, studying.”
I discovered them by chance. One day, I was searching for a better place to hide my traps and sticky pads from Gregory who took pleasure in vandalising them. Once done, I explored further, going farther into the woods, and marking the trail when necessary. Then I came across a patch of wild mint and sat in it, ate a few leaves, and put a couple more into my notebook. Then, a drone buzzed by my head. I believed it was a bee, and if lucky, there's a beehive, and some honey nearby.
As the sound became louder, I looked skyward, shading my eyes from the sunlight penetrating through the treetops. I discovered something else altogether. Not only did I find myself in an abandoned garden, actively producing wild fruits and vegetables, but also a big mud mound at the base of a peach tree. Although excited, I fled right then and there.
I knew what they were; I recently captured a yellow jacket, but only after watching it defeat and devour a bumble bee following an aerial battle. And now I've stumbled across their hideout, to study them up close, and do so every Saturday and Sunday morning. I learned they were breakfast for a family of blue jays. Plus, yellow jackets fed mostly on rotten fruit and decaying animal carcasses, and they rarely flew near the wild mint, for it served as a natural repellent.
Thereafter, I made sure to stop at the wild mint patch to crush up and put as much of it on my skin and clothes as possible, in order to get even closer to their nest without spooking them, and facing their relentless wrath. The one thing I wanted to do, which would've been foolish, no matter how tempting, involved breaking the nest open to look at its insides.
Then, I got a bright idea.
The next day at school. I confronted Gregory. I told him to leave my field tests alone, particularly my latest one, or I would finally give him that fat lip he rightfully deserved. I hinted at studying a bunch of flying insects near this pond and they lived below ground. To which he replied: "Flying insects don't live in the ground." This coming from a guy who thought termites were albino ants. So, I said: "Okay, just don't go playing with them, alright; seriously. They're dangerous." Greg resented being told what he could and couldn't do, especially by a dweeb, and he did what I expected. He tampered with them and got attacked.
"Mack, Mack, Mack?"
"No, no, no." I said. "Had he minded his own business, he wouldn't've gotten swarmed. That's his fault. So, no, I don't feel bad for him, not at all. I told that fool: 'don't go looking for it.' But, did he listen? Nope. That's why he is where he's at, the hospital."
"Mack, that ain't right, what you did."
"He's a bully, Granny."
"I'm not raising you to do ugly to other people."
"I know, but he deserved it."
"Maybe? But that's not your job. Now eat your food and go on to school before I do something rash. I'll deal with you when you come home, and come straight home. Don't think about wandering off, you hear."
"Yes ma'am."
Mother Earth sat down, bringing forward and putting her braids into her lap, and then rubbed her left knee. "I think it's going to rain," she said. "My knee is hurting something terrible." I stood up to go to the refrigerator and took out a cold Mason jar. It contained thick pieces of willow tree bark. After unscrewing the lid, I dipped my fingers inside and removed one, and then handed it to her to chew to help alleviate the knee pain. I sat back down and devoured my breakfast, placed the dirty dishes in the sink, kissed her on the forehead, and ran out the front door. Sprinting as fast as my legs would allow, the wind pushing back my Afro.
Down the street I dashed, taking a winding shortcut through a meadow. I soon met crushed stone, a gauntlet of railroad tracks, and box cars. After crossing and climbing them, I took another trail through a forested area, to which it led to a well-bent section of the fence behind the elementary school. I jumped over and pretty soon greeted my classmates. Some were playing around. The others stood discussing when to visit Gregory, and what to give him for get-well gifts. I disliked the gift giving idea, but I would go anyway. Just so I could tease him. To say, his thick skull and ignorance put him in the hospital. His situation, albeit regretful, produced a sense of gratification and others felt likewise. Apparently, everybody welcomed his absence. Some even laughed at his expense, I sure did. Right then, a second train blew, and then a third, and finally the morning school bell. Playground joy and chatter halted, for it alerted students everywhere they had three minutes to line up at their teacher's classroom doors. So off I ran – my soul buzzing happily until the final bell rang and upon meeting Mother Earth.