This Is Gosser Hill

If you’re lucky, you grew up in a small town like I did. Friends from the top of the hill, the whole way down to the alley, sprinkled with some crotchety old folks in between. Quad rides to a place aptly nicknamed the Toilet Bowl in the fall. Flying down Kepple’s Hill on a sled in the winter. The jingle of the ice cream truck, dirt sweated into our skin in the summer. Opting out of the bus ride and walking home from school, completely oblivious of the tornado warning in the spring. Sorry, Mom!

This is Gosser Hill.

Wiffle ball games, street hockey tournaments, never ending rounds of release. We invented dodgeball and don’t let anyone tell you differently. Parents’ whistles at dusk to call us in from play. Never fearing anything but maybe that tall line of pine trees scraping the night sky, and pissing off the parent who whistled.

This is Gosser Hill.

Early Saturday mornings waiting in a frigid car for neighbors rushing to the carpool for Catholic catechism class, silently praying they would be so late we could just skip it and go back to bed. Then, their bobbing heads appearing across the road, behind the high bushes, and into the clearing, dashing our hopes.

This is Gosser Hill.

The parents who let us get away with more, the parents who worked shifts and would have our asses if we were too loud outside bedroom windows, the parents we could count on for the best snacks. Tag football turned tackle. Tears, I’m taking my ball and going home, apologies, promises for no more tackles, then one more tackle, and game over.

This is Gosser Hill.

Wandering goats, crowing roosters, cats that tried to get inside homes any time our doors opened. Bad decisions to throw rocks at moving cars, jump out of second story windows, and mess with the kid whose mom fought all his battles.

This is Gosser Hill.

The neighbor who allowed us to cut through his yard, leaving weary footprints in his frost-covered grass as we made our way to the bus stop. The bus stop: where all the drama went down. Cigarettes, curse words, a divide of the classes. Best friends, no friends, boyfriends.

This is Gosser Hill.

Cattails by the pond, trails through the woods, your Cessna swooping overhead. We would stop playing to look up and wave. “We know him!” I hope your grandchildren look up every once in a while and remember you.

I know Gosser Hill will.

 Dedicated to one of our favorite Gosser Hillians and his family. 

photo credit: Matt. Create. via photopin cc