"Don't You Touch My Hammock!"
How would he ever know if I did?
“Don’t you touch my hammock!” my brother, yelled at me out of the blue, pointing his finger in my direction as he sat behind the steering wheel of his tan-colored 1976 Toyota pickup. I watched him as he drove down our long driveway, dust clouds boiling into the air behind him.
‘How would he ever know if I did?’ I thought.
I ran onto our deck where I could see him turn onto the road that headed toward our small northeast Oregon town, and then his pickup disappeared from sight. I jumped from the deck to the yard and raced around the house where his hammock stretched from the bed post in his bedroom, through his open window, then to the fence that outlined the small strip of our side yard.
I knew I had time. I knew he would be gone for a while and even if he did return sooner than expected, I would hear his pickup coming back down the driveway. How would he ever know?
My brother is five years older than me, but he would still let me into his world from time to time. Several times he took me with him when he climbed ‘The Hill Behind Our House’. One particular hike was absolutely miserable, and because of the misery I still remember it to this day.
‘The Hill Behind Our House’ was not a small hill; I would guess it took us at least two hours to get to the top. Somewhere along the way we came across a large boulder with a perfectly round bowl in the center of it. He told me it was where the Native Americans ground their corn. I have no doubt that is exactly what it was.
From our vantage point at the time, we could see the entire Indian Valley. I was amazed at the thought of who had walked this path before us. Our valley was know as the Indian Valley because members of the Nez Perce Tribe would spend summers there, fishing in what is now known as the Grand Ronde River.
We trudged on toward the snow-covered summit. Before long, the snow was up to my 10-year-old thighs; I could barely walk. He was 50 yards in front of me with no sign of his long legs slowing down.
“Stop!” I wailed. “I can’t walk! I want to go home!”
He stopped in his tracks, turned around to look at me, pointed his finger at me, and laughed his big brother I-could-care-less laugh.
I swear he loved to see me suffering. I wiped the tears from my eyes and and trudged onward.
“Come on you wimp, we’re almost to the top,” he hollered down to me. “We are not going home until we reach the top.” He spit on the ground, turned around and continued walking through the snow toward the top of the hill.
I knew in an instant he was serious. We would not head home until we both reached the top of the hill. He gave me no mercy. He knew I could do it. I did not think I could.
I finally made it to the top 20 minutes after him. By the time I arrived he was ready to head back down, but he begrudgingly waited for me to catch my breath before he took off in the lead.
I have no memory of our trip down ‘The Hill Behind Our House’, but the trip up has permanently been a prized childhood memory.
My meltdown on the side of that hill did not deter him from including me in other excursions.
He took me along when he and his friends would go swimming at the river, he let me tag along on camping trips, he took me to deer camp, elk camp, and other outings from time to time. I loved it. There was always an element of fear as he would swerve as if to send us plunging toward Troy as we made our way down the narrow, dirt-covered, switched back road….and laughter, there was always lots of laughing along the way.
One of my favorite memories with my brother was walking through the freshly plowed dirt of a field close to our house, searching for Native American arrow heads. We found them by the handfuls. He would take them home, arrange them on a piece of red felt, frame them, and hang them on his bedroom wall. Even today these amazing works of art are displayed in his home.
So back to me laying in his hammock. It was an amazing feeling, laying there, swinging back and forth while a cool breeze wafted across my face as I watched the puffy white clouds of summer drift across the beautiful blue sky. Life was good.
I absolutely loved to read, and I knew this would be a perfect spot to get lost in the pages of a book. I started wrestling with the hammock. It was not as easy to climb out of as it was to climb into.
And then it happened.
Time stood still for a moment, and I knew I was in trouble. I heard something rip, then felt myself falling to the ground, my backside still pressed against the threads of the hammock. I hit the ground with a thud, the hammock now wrapped around me.
‘This was how he was going to know.’ I thought as I lay there tangled in my brother’s hammock. The very one he warned me to stay out of.
I peered up toward his window. The rope that once held it was gone. It had come untied sending me careening to the ground.
Simple enough. I’ll go tie it back to the bedpost. He will never know.
‘He probably set me up and made it so the rope was loose, the big jerk.’
I jumped to my feet, grabbed the rope to fling it back through the open window and my heart sunk. I could feel the panic raising up in my chest. The rope had not come untied, it ripped, the rope had ripped into two pieces. I was in big trouble, and I knew it.
My brother was the only boy in the family and there were three of us girls. He had paid for his hammock with his own money, so he had every right to tell me to stay out of it, and since I didn’t listen, and to top it off, I broke it…I was going to be in big trouble, and I hated being in trouble.
I ran into the house to my brother’s room. My mind was racing, searching for ideas on how to fix the problem. I had to do something before he returned.
"Don’t you touch my hammock!” Raced back and forth across my mind.
I untied the rope from his bedpost, still unsure of what it was I was going to do to remedy this dire situation. I prayed he would stay gone long enough for me to figure it out.
My mind finally landed on a plan. I grab some scissors and a box of matches then raced outside to where the hammock lay on the grass, and still tied to the fence.
The plan I had come up with was to cut the frayed end of the rope, then melt it to look like it was brand new. I grab the scissors and cut the ends.
Dang it!
I realized I had cut the wrong part of the rope. I had cut the short side of the rope, the one I had just untied from the bed post. I grabbed the rope that was attached to the hammock and started the repair process again; I cut the frayed strands, lit a match and melted the rope. It looked almost brand new, other than the black knob of melted rope at the end. I noticed the other side of the hammock the rope was melted, but it wasn’t black.
Small detail, he’d never notice.
"Don’t you touch my hammock!”
I picked up all of the frayed rope pieces from the grass, and the short piece of rope that was no longer needed. I had to hide the evidence that I did, in fact, touch his hammock.
I pulled the small piece of plywood from the opening of the crawl space that led to underneath the house and I threw all the rope pieces that I had in my hand as far as I could throw them, then I quickly replaced the plywood. I felt like I was racing the biggest race of my life.
My heart was beating like crazy as I untied the hammock from the fence and gathered it all up in my arms. I ran across the backyard, around the goldfish pond, where the fish swam freely, no longer frozen in the ice that lasts for several months during the winter. I still find it strange that gold fish can freeze solid during the winter and then thaw out in the spring and they are completely fine, they just start swimming around as if they have never been stuck solid in a pond for four months.
I jerked open the mudroom door, made my way around the ping pong table where my brother and his friends would hang out and play ping pong. When I became a young teenager there was nothing I would rather do than watch his handsome friends play ping pong. I was sure one of them would eventually fall in love with me, sweep me off my feet and spend the rest of their life doting on me. They all had other plans, none of which included me.
I made my way to the sliding glass door that led to our kitchen. Hammock in hand I ran through the dining room and down the hallway to my brother’s room.
I wish my mind would quit replaying the video of him pointing his finger at me and demanding, ‘Don’t you touch my hammock!’
I quickly tied one side of the hammock securely to his bedpost once again, being careful to make sure the burnt side of the rope would be the side that I would tie to the fence. I threw the hammock outside. I crawl onto his bed, the rough blue fabric of his bedspread made my knees hurt. I climbed onto his window sill and crouched down enough that I was crouched there on the ledge. The ground was about seven feet from where I was perched, but time was slipping away, and I needed to get this hammock hung back up before he arrived. I jumped to the ground, landing on both feet and instantly went to work tying the other end of the hammock back up to the fence where it had been tied before.
My heart sank.
‘Don’t you touch my hammock!’
He was going to kill me I was sure of it! He would absolutely know the instant he rounded the corner to our side yard.
No longer was this hammock swaying freely in the breeze. With three feet of its rope gone, it was stretched tightly from my brother’s bedpost to the fence. He was absolutely going to know something had happened. He would also know I was the one who did it.
I had only one option. Go somewhere, grab a book, and pretend like I knew nothing about it. I went to my room and grabbed a book. Too nervous to read, I lay there waiting for the inevitable for what seemed like hours.
“You broke my hammock!” I heard him bellowing from where I lay. I could not calm the stress that welled up inside of me, but I willed myself to lay still and act like I had no idea what he was talking about.
My door flew open with a bang.
“You cut my hammock!” He was mad. Really mad. Madder than he had ever been mad at me before. I wasn’t sure I could continue pretending I knew nothing about his precious hammock. “I’m telling mom!”
I caved.
“No, no, no. I didn’t cut it. I’m sorry. I know you said not to get in it, but I thought you would never know. It looked so fun. I’m sorry. I didn’t cut it. It broke. I got in it and it just broke,” my eyes pleaded with him to believe me.
“You cut it!” he bellowed.
“I didn’t. I can prove it to you,” I smiled excitedly. It was like a lightbulb went off and I remembered the rope under the house. I could show him that it frayed against the window frame and broke.
I dodged past him and ran to the side yard with him close behind me. I tossed aside the plywood and climbed into the crawl space below our house. I fished out the piece of roped I had thrown under there earlier and crawled back out. I held up the nylon cord as if it was a trophy.
I looked at the rope…and then I remembered.
I did cut it. This end of the rope was not frayed like it had once been. I could not prove the hammock broke; I could only show I had indeed cut it.
“You cut it!!!” He yelled. “I’m telling mom.”
I burst into tears. “No, please don’t tell mom. Please!” I pleaded as I cried.
Everything from then on is a blur, except for his anger turning into pleasure. He jumped all around and pointed his finger at my tear-streaked face and chanted in a sing-song voice, “I’m telling mom, I’m telling mom.”
I think my brother set me up.
The hammock was probably about to break anyway, and he knew it. He knew that as soon as I climbed into it the rope would give way.
I think my tear-filled reaction was better than he could have ever imagined. I don’t think he ever did tell my mom.
Now that I am older and have a thicker skin, (thanks to him), I enjoy his off-the-wall humor, even though there are times I am still the victim of his jokes and antics. There is a softness to him now. I cannot imagine who I would have become had he not been in my life. He is one of my best friends and I am sure this will not be the only story I tell you with him as the main character.
Thank you for reading this post my friends, and if you know my brother, would you please ask him if he knew the hammock was going to break.
Please feel free to share this story as I build my audience. If you have an email list of people you think would enjoy my musings please feel free to forward this along. Thank you.
Peace and love to you all.
Lori
P.S. Who needs a notebook?
By the way, if you need the perfect gift for the writers, the doodlers, or the dreamers in your life, click this link or the link above to check out the notebooks I’ve created and sell on Amazon. I create and add more often, so be sure to check back whenever you need that special gift for someone you love, or even a notebook for yourself, because who doesn’t love a new notebook?