The Day I Raced a Squirrel

As a boy, I could climb any tree you pointed at and run for miles without thinking about what I was running from or to. I just ran.

Fast as a barn cat on a moonless night, flatfooted and howling with the wind. These days, I steady myself before I fart, and if I sneeze too hard, I gotta sit down and reintroduce myself to the world.

But I wasn’t always like this. There was a time—Lord, there was a time—when my legs were like spring coils, and I thought gravity was just a suggestion.

One hot June afternoon, when every day stretched out like a new frontier, and chores were just speed bumps between adventures, I decided to race a squirrel. Not on purpose, mind you. I’d just finished hauling feed sacks with Grandpa out to the shed, my shirt stuck to me like wet newspaper, and I was halfway through a Mason jar of ice water when I saw the squirrel.

He was a fat one. Not fat like store-bought chicken fat, but solid.

Thick through the haunches, like he’d been lifting acorns for sport. He’s perched up on the old apple tree that leaned east like it was listening to Nevada, and he was eyeing me like I’d interrupted something private.

Now, I don’t rightly know what came over me—maybe it was the water, the ice, or just the sheer dumb thrill of being twelve—but I locked eyes with that squirrel, set my jar down, and hollered, “You’re on!” even though he hadn’t said a word.

Off we went—him, zigzagging, like dodging sniper fire, and me, arms pumping, legs flying, my sneakers flapping like loose tongues. He bolted down the tree, tail flicking like Morse code, and tore across the yard toward the fence line.

I was close. Real close.

I hurdled over Grandma’s herb bed–crushed the dill, but it never held it against me–and shot past the rusted-out washing machine she used as a tomato cage. The squirrel juked left, and I followed. He went right—I tried.

I don’t remember the exact moment I lost him. He vanished somewhere between the woodpile and the old scarecrow.

But I do remember the moment I lost my footing. My right shoe caught something—might’ve been a root or my pride—and I went sprawling like a sack of flour.

I landed face-first in a clover patch, buzzing with bees and smelling faintly of manure and sunshine. I laid there a good while, breathing hard, grass in my teeth, trying to piece together what happened.

After a bit, I heard the screen door creak. Grandma leaned out, apron on, her hair pinned up in a bun she used for baking and battle.

“You alright, Tommy?” she called.

“I was racing a squirrel,” I mumbled.

Long pause. “Did you win?”

“No, ma’am.”

Another pause. “Then, come in and wash up.”

I learned something that day, though it took a few decades to sink in–sometimes you chase things for the joy of the chase, not because you’re gonna catch them. And if you fall flat on your face, that’s just part of growing up.