The long country roads stretched for as far as my eye could see. Houses scattered here and there every hundred feet or so, and the grass, dirt, and fields covered everything in between. I created my memories here: Grand Island, NY, 1970s.

I spent the first years of my life on this tiny island, a place where running into somebody you knew at the local store or market never struck as unusual. Although small, the vast, sprawling fields made the island seem as if it would never end.  I recall waking up to the smell of fresh cut grass, breakfast stirring in the kitchen, and the sound of the occasional tractor. I grew very close to the familiar sounds sights, as I remained outside most of the time. I thrived on riding my go-kart, my mini bike, or just horsing around in the fields with my closest friends. Without a care in the world, I began my childhood.

The blinding sun snuck its way through the cracks of the blinds, revealing the stagnant dust hanging in the air. In return, it naturally arose me from my deep, dream-filled summer sleep.  Feeling groggy, and not ready for what was to come of that great-day-gone-wrong, I headed downstairs for breakfast.

My foot promptly met a pile of Lincoln-Logs on the floor, and an unpleasant pain throbbed throughout. Trying to brush off the pain, I hobbled the rest of the journey.

I ate breakfast, consisting of three waffles with butter, syrup, whipped cream, and two eggs with a strip of bacon, forming a delectable smiley face. As always, I ate as fast as I could and fled to the fields, where my friends waited in great anticipation for me. We began to decide what this year’s summer would bring us.

Randy, Jimmy, and Skip, a motley crew if you ask me, made up my gang of adventure-seeking boys. Cooped up in school for a year, we felt ready to finally let loose and go wild for two whole months.

“So, what’s in store for today, gentlemen?” I asked frankly. In return I got bombarded with foolish shenanigans and suggestions towards what we would waste away our time doing today, only a few I could have recalled. We could not agree on anything in particular but to go down to the creek for the day and swim. In unison, we rushed home to meet up again at the murky, pathetic depression in the ground lucky enough to collect some water in it, giving it a use for four neighborhood boys.

“Ya’ know, I wish summer could last forever,” Skip said, “They keep us prisoner in there for so long, and in return, we get a measly two months to unwind?” Skip had a strong Indian complexion, his family having an even stronger Indian background. He was scrawny, a dreamer, and nothing else but a loyal, honest friend.

“C’mon, we aren’t even halfway through June and you’re already complaining about what time we do have!” Jimmy shouted from the other side of the creek, before catching his breath and diving under again. His return to the surface followed with a “Loosen up and enjoy what they’ve given us, take it and run with it, now get in the creek, we’re losing sunlight! Unless you’re afraid to get a little wet, skin-and-bones!”

Jimmy, rough around the edges, craved anything physical or associated with sports, a typical go-getter at that. At times, he could treat the less-bulky and built Skip pretty badly, but the banter and teasing held a friendlier tone today, seeing as our short summer had only just begun. There was no time to waste quarreling amongst each other.

Skip stripped down and put on his bathing suit behind a tree nearby and came running down the slope, cannonballing into the shallow waters below. His actions followed with a “Wooohoooo!” muffled only by the splash and submergence under the creek’s muddy surface. All felt as it should be in our little town, and at that moment I knew summer really commenced.

We dispersed after long hours of marco-polo, cannonball contests, and other crazy antics. I went home to shower and clean up before dad would arrive home for dinner. We ate out at the local Red Barn, a treat on a Friday night, as here lied the most artery-clogging, grease-filled food a man could have. I sat there water-logged, hair dripping wet, with a big old grin across my face, feasting on the meal at hand, my body aching from all of the day’s activities. All the while, I secretly looked forward to the night grouping to come.

We somehow managed to meet yet again in the fields, with the new addition of a can of lighter fluid and some matches accompanying us.

“Randy, how did you convince your father to let you borrow some lighter fluid?” I asked cautiously, weary of the surroundings and circumstances at hand.

“Heck, you really think my father let me borrow this ole thing? I snatched it when he sat down to read the paper, distracted by some story on those air raid drills we’re having,” Randy replied.

I said, “I’m sure he’d be pretty burned to find that thing, along with you, missing.”

Randy retorted, “Aw you ain’t no fun, Jeff. You know my dad; once the old man sits down with the paper he won’t get up for at least three hours. We got time.”

I was never very fond of Randy. His ancestors hailed from Germany, but he acted as American as the rest of us. Born a pathological liar and a kleptomaniac, he’d steal anything he could get his grubby little hands on. Yet he acted unpredictably, and had a downright sense of adventure. These qualities felt compelling and fascinating enough to continue our association with him. A strange friend, but he kept enough change within our group that things would rarely fall flat.

“Let’s start a mini-camp fire!” boomed Jimmy, a hint of excitement jumping in his voice.
“Are you sure that won’t attract any of the neighbors, or our parents?” asked Skip nervously.

“Nah, they’re all tied up with whatever adults are usually tied up with. Probably some money issue or something to do with that Water Gate scandal’. Now c’mon, let’s light this baby up!” I volunteered to strike the match, unaware of what would soon ensue.
The wind did not help matters, blowing relentlessly, and we had to put out several fires before we got it just right. Our fire pit contained a small pile of uprooted crops and such with a few twigs for good measure, soaked beyond belief with all the lighter fluid we had, with a little drop left in the can to avoid suspicion the next time Randy’s father would need it.

It started out as an innocent little thing, pathetic even. We sat on the ground staring into what we had created, with the twinkle of the fire’s light reflecting in my friends’ eyes. We told stories of the past and plans for the days ahead for the next few short moments.

We hadn’t realized in all the fun, laughter, and excitement what was really happening right behind our own backs. The fire began to spread from crop to crop like a plague. Randy, rose swiftly first, shortly followed by the rest of us.
“Crap! I had a bad feeling about doin’ this!” exclaimed Skip. It felt like an easy hundred and two degrees near the fire.

“Okay, c’mon guys, quick try and stamp out the fire!” I shouted over the panic.

“You’re crazy! The fire has eaten its way up the crops you fool, it’s too damn high to stomp out at this point!” Randy’s flushed cheeks showed a weird sense of responsibility for the fire, guilt, and rage. After the panic, turning against each other, pointing fingers, cussing, and a whole heck of a lot of sweat, we went for the only viable option at the time: run.

We ran and ran and ran. As the fields became blurred, the fire roaring and visible still, I ran through the back door of our house, barely stopping to acknowledge my family sitting together in the living room, chatting about the horrific Kent State shooting, like nothing was wrong right in their own neighborhood. Panic on my face, I fled to my room and hid under my bed, only then realizing my friends must have had the same idea and went home as well. We had reached safety.

The sirens and firetrucks shortly after our mishap began to wail a mile away. I didn’t leave my room till late the next morning, skipping breakfast, and sleeping in a bit longer than usual. I went into that day feeling a little different, and the next, and probably for the rest of the month, with only that memory in mind.

My parents never found out who caused the fire and neither did any of my friends’ parents. The day following the incident, when my friends and I met, we all looked a bit weary and tired, where even a complete stranger could tell something was amiss. The long, hot summer days that quickly followed were filled with the usual activities—fun, bickering, and teasing— but we never had a naïve sense of nothing-could-go-wrong again. We carried on cautiously, our outlooks changed, but the summer still became the best yet.