Wild Child On Melrose Road

My dreams came true in the form of a farmhouse in the Missouri woods. Three acres of rolling hills and a long, winding driveway. A dilapidated barn sat in the back of the property, abandoned and void of life, save for a singular rope swing. I would spin in solitude for hours amongst the rusty tools. Our house hid in the hillside up behind Six Flags. My dad carved a hole in the trees so we could see the fireworks every night. I had the entire basement floor to myself. My bedroom consisted of two bunk beds, a pink lava lamp, and field mice who scurried around in my walls. I look back fondly while my mother remembers a horrifying projectile vomiting situation associated with that room. Whoops. A sandbox. A swing set. The mud fort I built in the corner of the yard. Shrouded in shrubbery, I built a “throne” out of mud and sticks. I worked on it for weeks — only for it to be too small by the time I sat on it. Next time, I’ll draw up a schematic beforehand. The tire swing. Chained to a great oak tree and just out of swinging distance from the power lines, this was the ultimate attraction. We, kids, climbed up into the cradle of the branches and waited for our dads to launch the tire in our direction. The key was to hold off until the swing bumped against the tree trunk and started to fly away. Could you hold out until it was one inch away? Five inches away? A whole foot away? The competition was on. We leaped for our lives, grabbing hold of the rope, and flipping upside down to show off our tricks and individual style. Sometimes, we even got the adults to spin the tire — sending us into the dizziest of spells. <a href="https://medium.com/the-challenged/wild-child-on-melrose-road-828817f38ec0">Click Here</a>