Friday, December 17, 1993

"...with liberty and justice for all," the class recited in unison, most of us struggling with staying awake, due the fact that we were just forced out of a deep sleep mere minutes ago by our ever-loving mothers. The clinking of metal desk legs and the shuffling of wide-ruled notebook paper filled Mrs. Belle's third grade classroom. As the announcements succeeding the pledge droned on, two fingers tapped a quick cadence on my shoulder.

"Nat-a-tat-tat!" chimed the ginger-haired, freckle-faced kid behind me. At the beginning of the school year, Mason Katz decided to address me by a different nickname every day until one finally stuck. I turned around, hoping this entry would have the typical 24-hour shelf life? If it started to trend, could I convince my parents into a transfer?

"What's up, Mason?" I asked flatly. My enthusiasm must have been tucked away inside my Trapper Keeper.

"Whatcha doin' for Christmas Break?" he probed. In 1993, Texas public schools hadn't yet made the politically correct adjustment, deeming it "Winter Break". Though they made the transition a few years later, students (as well as teachers) continued to call it "Christmas Break". We dared to defy authority at a particularly young age. Rebellion meets baby Jesus. 'Tis the season.

But, to answer Mason's question, I replied simply, "I'm gonna visit my family in Michigan." Then, there was a flash of hope in my voice. "Maybe this year, they'll finally take me hunting."

"Yeah, okay, sure. Have a good time with that," Mason said with a scoff. Sarcasm was a relativey new concept for me and my classmates, but we were making impressive, hurtful progress.

"What do you mean? It's gonna be awesome!" I struck back, hoping that some jealousy would surface with the remark.

"You actually think you are gonna hunt? You can't even kill a spider. You trap them under cups and set them free outside at recess. What makes you think you can hunt?"

I paused for a moment as frustration caused my initial response to be nothing but stuttering gibberish. Then, I took a deep breath and quickly lashed back, "I dunno, but I'm gonna!" Way to go, Nat. You really won that argument.

Now, the two-and-a-half day drive from Houston, Texas to Bear Lake, Michigan was filled with car games that my dad always won, books on tape that my mom would pick up during one of our many visits to Cracker Barrel, and amazing duels of the deeply sophisticated game "Not Touching You, Not Touching You". By time we reached our destination, the family minivan (a blue and silver Chevy Astro) looked like the beginning set of a dystopian tale, featuring the wonderful protganist, Crushed Cheetoh, and his lost companions, lost Travel Scrabble Tiles.

During our Christmas road trips, we truly lived out the Christmas carol, "Over the River and Through the Woods". To Grandmother's house we did go. Once my cheeks were pinched and I received my annual threatening advice to eat more, I immediately bolted out of the modular home and sauntered down the hillside to my cousins' farmhouse, which was the original family homestead. It now belonged to my maternal uncle, who stood well over 6'2", but carried the nickname "Shorty". Yeah, he had a Mason Katz in his life, too.

After a warm welcome, I usually sat at the kitchen table and watched everyone play board games. As a kid, board games were difficult to play, unless they had an extremely quick tempo. I couldn't just sit there as the Monopoly banker struggled with basic addition and subtraction. It was simply too frustrating.

"Hey, Nathaniel, you look really bored," my cousin Christian said as I held my head, observing yet another thrilling game of Euchre.

My mouth streched into a ridiculous shape as I yawned loudly. "Gee, how could you tell?"

Christian smiled deviously. "You wanna get outta here? Ya know. For, let's say... an adventure?"

The simple word brought me to my feet as adrenaline coursed through my veins. "Oh, my God, YES!"

After pulling on oversized bomber jackets from the first World War, we sprinted across the street and into the snow-covered forrest. Historically, our adventures consisted of snowball fights and tree-climbing that our mothers wouldn't approve of. Nothing had prepared us for this adventure. Our last adventure.

About a quarter-mile past the treeline, we stumbled upon a deep, dark hole, several feet in diameter. Childhood mentality dictated the following action.

"ECHO!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. The faint response with a touch of reverb drew a smile on my face. Christian and I took turns yelling the redundancy into the chasm. After yelling the same word for ten minutes, I started to think: What would happen if the hole responded with a different word, like "BOLOGNA!" That would be terrifyingly outrageous, right?

After a few more minutes, the luster of the novelty faded; however, our curiosities drove us to start throwing small objects in the darkened abyss. After we let go of the object, we listened for a sound that would hint at the approximate depth of this pit.

But, we didn't hear anything. Not even a patter. Wait. Was this a bottomless pit? How could we know for sure? What is the best solution? Oh, that's right. A bigger, heavier object.

Unable to find a suitable sacrifice in the immediate vicinity, we soon expanded our search radius. This widening inadvertantly brought us to a clearing at the opposite end of the forrest. And there, sitting there like it was kismet, the answer to our befuddling problem: an old, rusty transimission that was easily a few decades old.

The process of moving this transmission taught me quite a bit. First and foremost, transmissions are fucking heavy. A truly remarkable discovery. So, lifting it was completely out of the question. The only feasible method of transport would be dragging it back to the seemingly endless void.

Once we were positioned where we needed to be for a safe drop, we stopped for a moment to relish the moment when our back-breaking effort would finally be rewarded. This was it. Here and now.

"You ready?" Christian asked, tightening his grip on his side.

"I was born ready," I responded through a grunt, trying to get a better hold.

"One..." Our chant began. "Two..." We edged closer to the mouth. "THREE!" A final push sent our plan into an irreversible motion.

As the rusty transmission plummeted into the darkness, a goat (yeah, a goat) zipped by the two of us, charging after the twisted metal at breakneck speed. Wait. Did a goat just try to heroically save a transmission from its utter, untimely demise? The dense thud that followed soonafter sent a shiver down my spine. Christian's skin started to blend in with the fresh powder surrounding him. Neither of us could form a word. All we could do was slowly turn and walk away from the site of incredible goat valor as we shuffled through the snow back to the farmhouse.

At the country road, a truck drove past us, but slammed on its brakes once it did. The driver hopped out, adjusting his hat as he jogged toward us. His facial expression was somewhere between frustration and genuine concern.

"Hey, boys. Random question: Have you seen a goat wandering around?"

The blood drained from our faces as we quickly shook our heads with the lie.

"Dammit!" he shouted, striking the hood of his F-250 with his calloused fist. Then, he redjusted his hat, took a deep breath, and found his calm. "I apologize, fellas. You shouldn't use that language. I just... I can't find my goat. I don't understand what happened," he said as he climbed back inside the extended cab. "Seriously, this doesn't make any sense. I mean, I even tied him to a transmission."

And so began the quietest Christmas I can remember.

"....with liberty and justice for all," the class said in unison.

"Natty-Watty!" Mason jabbed with a giggle, tapping my shoulder. I turned around exceptionally slowly, which instantly brought out his curiosity. "Okay... spill. How was your Christmas Break?"

"I murdered a goat."