The Hill

You can’t imagine how much teasing I get from kids at school because my last name is McDonald. They taunt me singing, “Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O. And on that farm she had a pig, E-I-E-I-O.” Good grief. I get so tired of it.

I can’t wait to get home and head for the hill. Blanketing the rolling land behind the house are acres and acres of cat’s tail grass, tall pine trees, and a trickle of water that barely classifies as a crick. I love laying in the grass. It comes up to my shoulders, it’s so tall. I find the perfect spot and pull the grass up and over me so I’m invisible if someone walks by.

When I get tired of lying in the grass, I wander up the hill and find the chokecherry tree to sit under. I grab one and take a bite. It’s bitter, and I know it’s going to be bitter but it’s a thing I do. I can see everything from there: the lane and who is coming, the neighbor’s house two fields away and if Lance is outside chopping wood, where the milk cow is hiding until she can't stand how full her udder is, where my brothers are and what shenanigans they're up to.

My spot is in full sunlight. The warmth of the rays soak into my body. I close my eyes and let the sun do its work of melting away all the teasing from the kids at school. I hear the tinkle of the creek as it works its way downhill. When the milk cow bellows, I know it’s time to make my way down and start helping mom with dinner.