The Power of Testimony

MARK BOUMAN || 29
my arms crossed. Then I found the wall clock and tried to count the
minutes until lunch.
• • •
Despite starting school, though, the eleven acres of sand on Blakely Drive
remained my world. Apart from school, we rarely left home, and if I wasn’t
doing a chore, and if there wasn’t a blizzard or an ice storm, I spent almost
all my time outside, usually with Jerry and sometimes with Sheri tagging
along. Mom had a stock response to our complaints of boredom—​
complaints that only increased as we grew older and the shine of living
alone in the boonies faded.
“Go outside and play,” she’d always say, looking up from her laundry
or her pressure cooker or her dustpan. “And take your sister with you!”
Jerry and I would slouch out the door, and nearly every time Sheri
would ambush us.
“Where ya going?”
“Nowhere.”
“Well, can I come?”
“We’re just gonna walk around.”
“But I wanna come too!”
Jerry and I would stand there, hoping she’d disappear. It wasn’t that
we didn’t like our kid sister—​ it was that she ruined our fun just by tagging
along.
“You know,” I’d say, “we aren’t even going anywhere.”
“Yes you are! You already said so!”
“Fine. Fine. We’re going to walk up that hill, through those thick,
scratchy bushes.”
We’d set off at a fast walk, and Sheri would have to pump her shorter
legs to keep up. It didn’t take long for the whining to start.
“Wait!” we’d hear from behind us. “Wait!”
“We’re going exploring, Sheri, and if you want to explore, you have
to keep up!”