The Magic Tent

I was nine years old when we moved from the house in Buford. At the time I was excited to move to a new home in a new state, but now looking back I can see all the things I would miss - games I would play with my older brother in the back woods, club meetings with friends down the street, Tuesday nights at Cub Scouts and Wednesday nights at Awana. There was the hill in the back corner of the yard that we would storm up as World War One soldiers; a trail between two Blackberry thickets that acted as the parted waters, me playing the Egyptians, my brother as the Israelites; The bike jump I made behind the house, and the thorn bushes I rode my bike into while trying to ride with no hands. But nothing was quite as magical as the spot behind the shed, buried in a mess of muscadine vines.

To be continued