Coppery tang of the hose water. The sweet, powdered lemon lime Gatorade mix.

The soccer mad kid who wore soccer socks with shorts and silver indoor shoes.

The colored bandanas and infamous 2002 World Cup Ronaldo haircut. The boldness of a child who would walk up to newly moved in neighbors and prompt their hellos with “Got any food?”

The same kid that tied a red Radio Flyer wagon with the wood slats to his bike and imagine he and a friend were adventurers in a grand caravan. The inside of the wagon would be laid with soft blankets and the essential box of Cap’n Crunch. Long journeys require ample rations.

The kid that spent sun soaked afternoons tromping around a garden to create Indiana Jone’s-esque booby-traps. The leather jacket and satchel were essential components of the donned costume. Alas, no whip was supplied.

The mastery of talents away from prying eyes. The eventual conquering of the fabled “No-hands” bike riding technique. The first and youngest kid on the block to start riding— and quickly ratcheted it up with corner drifts and mini-jumps. All to the low thrum of pseudo motorcycle sounds as clothing pin clamped playing cards stuck in the spokes.

I’d clamor through backyards and side streets without controversy. It was the end of vacant lots and idle hours— I’d wander through my childhood no matter where I was.

My time in the woods on Mt. Hood saw many an afternoon spent on the small shamrock covered island in the creek below my family’s cabin. Giant logs crossed above the island to provide passage to the far shore. The water had its own taste that would find its way to your mouth even if you didn’t stoop to drink from the ambling current.

I’d don a Sherlock Holmes hat of indistinct red, brown, orange-ish color and tromp through the foliage off to the side of the trails. I’d find moss beds and stand in clearings— waiting for who knows what.

The one too many broken garage door windows from shooting practice— the scuffed soccer balls and climbing onto the school roof to reclaim wayward shots when the garage stopped being an option.

Warm, fuzzy raspberries in the early summer mornings as a herculean black lab routed through the brambles in search of pluckable berries.

I’d walk to the library with my mom and middle siblings with our book bags. I’d fill mine with old comics and chapter books with dragons or monsters that wouldn’t stop me from falling asleep at night.

I’d peer out of my open door during sleepless nights at the yellow hallway light that cast shadows over the doorway— splitting my worries between my closet, underneath my metal bunk bed, and the hallway itself.

Stories flowed through that child— stories of his own creation and the creations of others as he wondered of far lands, the fae, marauders, pirates, and the dark side of the moon.