I was five when my parents got the bright idea to send me to summer school with my brothers, six-year-old Dean and nine-year-old Stan. I don’t recall much of the summer, but one memory stands out, perhaps because I’ve heard it recalled so many times.

One sunny day, during recess, my brothers and I made our way back into the school building. We found a bottle of glue and returned to the playground. We promptly poured goo all over an ant bed and crafted apple-sized balls of dirt and ants. Antballs-in-hands, we did the only logical next step; we launched them into the air. 

I guess, as a five-year-old, I lacked respect for the life of ants and the wellbeing of others, like the female student whose long dark hair caught one of those balls on its way back to earth. That was our last day of summer school.

I can’t imagine how administration expelled us without notifying our parents, but Stan was old enough to concoct a plan and help his little brothers keep the secret. We’d leave home each morning, walk toward the school until we were out of eyeshot of Mom, then head around the block to enjoy our Huck Finn summer at a nearby lake.

I’m not sure how we stayed alive or out of further trouble, or how long we waited to tell our parents. Over the next six years, Stan took me to the brink many times. Then he tipped that damned tractor over, and he was gone.

I’m grateful for hilarious memories. Cherish your life and loved ones. Things can change.