There were baseball games, races and right foot still. There were somersaults, cartwheels and leapfrog. There was badminton and croquet, jumping in leaves, snowball fights and rolling down the hill. Having grown up in the country and not owning a car, we spent most of our youth at the house. We had a great big yard and spent many hours making memories as we romped and played in the yard and on the hills of the old home place. Many things have happened in that old yard. Rachel and me used to drag our dolls and dishes out to play house. Mom would make tents out of old blankets hanging on the clothesline. I can close my eyes and hear Daddy worrying about Jack and Andy wearing out the grass when they played ball. I can still hear Mom holler out the kitchen window, “If that ball goes over the hill one more time, you’re going to have to quit playing.” One time Jack and I were playing kick ball and it kept going over the hill. We could tell Mom was getting tired of us asking to go in the road to get the ball. Needless to say, it went over that “one more time” we’d been warned about. Being kids, with our infinite wisdom, we decided to sneak down without asking. We figured she’d never know, so what was the harm. As we watched it’s journey over the hill. Our mouths fell open in dismay. Oh no! It had landed in the BIG DITCH. Now anyone growing up in that old house knew the big ditch was forbidden territory. There were rumors of snakes and poison ivy, worries of falling in the water and not getting out. It was a deep ditch. But in reality there never was that much water in it, maybe 6-8 inches. So Jack decided to brave its steep bank and go get the ball. I stood guard on the road, watching out in case Mom appeared at the door and caught us in the act. He climbed down, got the ball and was almost to the top. I looked up at the house. Good, no sign of Mom. We’d made it. As he was climbing up the bank, (I can still see it today as though in slow motion), he lost his hold and WHAM! He landed flat on his back in the creek water. Busted. No way to hide that from Mom. I don’t remember our punishment, but I can only guess that it was the usual — one of us on the couch and one of us on the chair. And no getting up until Mom thought we had suffered enough. When you're small, any punishment seems cruel and unusual to you. But now that I’m a mother, I view things differently. I imagine our punishment was a relief to Mom, just a few minutes to do what she needed to do without having to worry about what we were getting into. As we grew older we took our kids back to play in that old yard. On many occasions, I would catch myself threatening dire circumstances if the ball “went over the hill one more time”. Mothers never change.