Free Memory Boy by Will Weaver Page A

good.
    â€œListen, boys,” my father began.
    â€œYou listen to me. I want you all to step off that crazy vehicle,” the leader said. The others nodded.
    â€œSo much for traveling in broad daylight,” I muttered.
    The hijackers dismounted and pulled narrow wooden clubs from their rifle scabbards. At least there weren’t real guns.
    â€œStep aside,” the leader said.
    We obeyed.
    Just as the gang was about to ransack the Princess —like in an old cowboy movie—the sheriff arrived. Not really the sheriff, but a single green Humvee with its headlights on.
    â€œShit!” the leader said. The gang whirled around to look at the Humvee. In one motion they leaped onto their little iron horses and cranked the engines. Within seconds they lurched forward and roared up the bank and into the trees. Their dust hung in the air.
    The Humvee approached, then braked to a stop. “Hello, folks.” The driver wore mirrored sunglasses.
    My father nodded.
    â€œWas that that gang of little shits on four-wheelers?” the Humvee driver said, looking at the dust cloud and the tracks up the bank.
    â€œI would say that was them,” my father said.
    â€œTheir ass is grass,” the Humvee passenger said. “We’ve had nothing but trouble with that bunch.”
    â€œThey did seem a little short on structured summer activities,” my mother said. My heart was still pounding.
    â€œTell you what,” the Humvee driver said. “We’ll give you folks an escort for a few miles just to make sure you’re safe. In fact, I’ve got a tow rope. Why don’t you hook on?”
    â€œMiles?” my mother said.
    The government never did anything for me, that’s for sure. Most people depend on the government. Not me. I depended on myself .
    â€œSure,” I said.
    â€œThank you,” my mother said to the soldier. As we hooked on and got ready for our free ride, she glanced at me and shrugged. “Crow is not that bad to eat. As an adult, you get used to it.”
    â€œExcuse me?” the Humvee driver said to her.
    â€œAn inside joke,” my mother said.
    â€œReady!” I called to the driver. And with a small lurch we were off. We kicked back and let the breeze blow over us as we rolled north.

CHAPTER EIGHT
BUENA VISTA REVISITED
    THE ORAL-HISTORY PROJECT CONTINUED FOR six weeks. Six times I visited Mr. Kurz. Mainly we worked on things. Sometimes he talked, sometimes he didn’t. Unlike most of the other ninth graders, I didn’t bother with a tape recorder. I didn’t even take notes. I could remember what I needed to. And anyway, most of it was rambling, useless stuff.
    Berries. A man should know his berries. Best ones are blueberries. If they can escape a late frost in June, you’re lucky. But they’re hardy plants. They don’t need a lot of sunlight, plus they grow best where there are pine trees and the soil is sandy. Blueberries like pine needles for some reason. Makes the soil sour, is my theory. You want to find blueberries, look for pines, rocks, and sand. But they don’t last long. If the bears don’t get them, by the end of July, they’re done .
    Wild grapes last a little longer. Look for them along riverbanks and swamps. The vines use other trees to climb up and get better light. They depend on other trees. Kind of like most people depend on the government. Parasites, I call them. But wild grapes are mighty tasty. Most times you got to look high up and climb for them, but they’re worth it .
    High-bush cranberries last the longest—again, if the birds or bears don’t get them. They come in red clusters. You’ll see them in September, where it’s swampy, hanging from bushes a tall man high. Sometimes you can smell cranberries before you see them—kind of a rank, sweet odor. They’re good all fall and into the winter, even if they freeze. Once when I was trapping in January, I saw