Snowstorm

When little girls don't have big brothers they are wimps.
Anyway, I was.

One second-grade day I was walking home from school, splashing through the slush. We'd had a late April snowstorm that morning and it was already melting. I imagined that the snow on the sidewalk was ice cream, and with a slosh of my boot it became a root beer float.

Suddenly the big boys appeared.

Snowballs were flying in my direction and I started bawling. What 4th grade boy doesn't enjoy chasing a cry-baby? They threatened to wash my face. I was terrified!

I ran down the street, slipping in the mud, sliding on the wet grass in panic. Finally I pushed through my front door while snowballs bombarded the porch.

I immediately heard shattering glass, and then a scream from my mom's bedroom. A misguided snowball had hit her window and shiny splinters covered the surface of the baby's bassinet. Although the dresser had hundreds of minuscule shards of glass embedded in the oak, my two-week old sister slept through it all without a whimper.

I'd never seen my mother so mad! She flew outside and let those big boys have it. No wimpiness in her! She called their parents and they had to mow our lawn all summer to pay for the window.

I wasn't bothered by them again. Which was a shame. In high school they weren't nearly as scary. I wouldn't have minded them chasing me then!