Why We Were Not Invited Back to Uncle Jack’s Farm for Summer 1991

Geez Louise, why is it so freaking hot, why do we have to spend every summer in this muggy buggy dump of a place, POPULATION 1312 and shrinking, someone spray-painted on the sign, I won’t say it was me and Tommy, I won’t say there’s nothing to do in a town like this but get into trouble or die trying, when you wake up every day and Dad says Smell that fresh air! And we look at him like he’s crazy, because he is, it’s my uncle’s farm and the air smells like manure, like unwashed dust-covered cows who can barely muster the energy to flick flies off their ass, and can you blame them? When we say we’re bored Dad tells us to FIND something to do, why don’t we read a book (sure, the shelves are full of tractor repair manuals and Grandma’s Reader’s Digest Condensed Books from 1955), why don’t we play a game of checkers (because we’re not 105?), why don’t we go exploring (like there’s anything around here to explore or any way to get there if there was.) Once we were so bored we tried to ride Cousin Charlie’s old bike that must have been firecracker red once but now it’s flaky tangerine, not a 10-speed, not any speed, flat tires, broken chain, one of those old squeeze-bulb horns, like you’d need it, but we kept squeezing it until Dad said cut it out, we were scaring the chickens. So today we see Uncle Jack’s backhoe parked at the edge of the field and Tommy says, You think he left the keys in it?, like anyone locks their doors here ever. It’s yellow and, because it rained last night, it’s bright and shiny, the only thing on this farm that is, and we jump in and start it but somehow it’s going backwards over the rutted dirt driveway and chickens are coo-cooing and flap-hopping out of the way and I don’t know who’s yelling louder when we hit the barn door, Uncle Jack or us.