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I believe in memories and grass stains.
Behind Emmanuel Baptist Church, lays a large piece of evergreen land that is home to more than just an old Hickory Tree. For nearly thirty years the patch of grass has been the official field for a number of outdoor children’s games. The sweat, blood, and tears that have been shed on the pasture ultimately result in two things, memories and grass stains. Grass stains, a mother’s worst nightmare.
They are more than just an unbelievably hard blemish to get out of that favorite pair of jeans, grass stains are a vital part of life. Every blotch represents a memory, a time in life when something exponential occurred.
Though as a child I was never one to go outside and get dirty, I have always enjoyed watching those who did. After my generation’s “ghost in the graveyard” days had retired, taking the kids outside on Sunday nights became a responsibility of mine along with my favorite tyrant, Tom. It occurred to us, while we were searching for something to believe in for our upcoming paper, that believing in individuality was too clichéd, and ninjas were kind of like demons, you know they are there but you wish they weren’t, somewhat like terrorists and Hell. Suddenly, a large red ball came flying toward me and hit me in the face. When Tom began yelling at the kids it occurred to me that each of them had dark green splotches on their knees. “I believe in grass stains.”
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