4. Tyler
FOUR
TYLER
THEN
“Tyler! Ty! Get up and help me outside, bud,” my dad calls from outside my bedroom door. I try to stay as still as possible in my bed, hoping he will forget that he has a son.
The door creaks open slightly, and through the sliver of opening in my blankets, I see my dad’s scruffy face peek inside. “Ty, the ducks are hungry.”
“The ducks forage for their food most of the time,” I respond.
“He lives!” my dad says, bursting into my room and yanking my comforter off of me, barking out a husky laugh.
“It’s barely seven a.m., and it’s the weekend.”
“And you act like this is a new routine every weekend. The ranch life never stops.” He pats my foot and turns to head out. “Your mom is making breakfast, then we can get to work before heading into town.”
The sentence intrigues me enough to make me slide out of the covers, straightening the blankets and my pillow as I go.
I open my bedroom door and take a whiff of the air.
It smells like honey and bacon. There might even be something sweet in the oven.
My mom makes the best breakfasts in the entire world, but only ever has time to go all out on the weekend.
Her job as a second-grade teacher makes her leave the house early, and I’m left to what my dad can gather.
I love the guy, but he always overcooks scrambled eggs and under-toasts the sourdough.
I pull on sweatpants and rifle through my laundry basket, looking for my favorite sweatshirt, which I got at the start of middle school.
At the beginning of the year, they hand out “Auburn Hills Athletics” sweatshirts to all the students.
Mine this year is dark green, which my mom says complements my dark-red hair, the same shade she has.
I wear it so often that it’s the coziest thing in my closet, and the fact that it’s December means it’s going to be freezing outside.
It hasn’t snowed yet, so I think I can get away with my sneakers and not have to pull my heavy boots on.
I can hear my dad humming a song I don’t recognize from the kitchen as I head down the hallway into the house’s main living area.
This is my favorite place in the entire house because it feels like an oversize sunroom.
There are large windows that go from the floor to the ceiling and then angle up to the roof.
The view looks out toward the back of the ranch, where we can see our animals and garden flourishing.
The ducks are already awake, like my dad said, and I can see that my dad has already tended to the goats.
My mom says Dad’s parents built this house during the ’70s.
It resembles a log cabin. Before I was born, though, my parents renovated the bedrooms and the kitchen, adding larger windows and knocking down a wall that separated the kitchen and living area at the back of the house.
I enter the kitchen, and my mouth can’t help but water from the medley of scents.
My dad is leaning over the island, picking at the plate of bacon while my mom tends to the stove.
I slide in next to him and reach over for a piece myself just as my mom turns around.
“Hey! No sneaking pieces!” She gently swats my hand. “I want you to try all the flavors together.”
“What’s the issue? It’s all going to the same place,” I retort, breaking off a burnt end of bacon and letting it melt on my tongue.
“Such a teenager you are—when did you grow up? I miss my baby Ty, who listened to me,” she says, and I sneer, sliding off the counter seat and taking my usual spot at the dining table.
Even though I’m not technically a “teen” at twelve years old, starting a new school this year changes things.
I’m not a little kid anymore. I’m one year closer to high school.
“Want some coffee, bud?” my dad asks nonchalantly.
“Coffee!” my mom shrieks in horror. “He’s not ready for that.”
“Yeah! I’ll take a tall cup of joe,” I say to my dad, who laughs and pours coffee into a mug.
“Cream or sugar?” he asks.
“Nothing, I’ll take it black.”
“Wow, you are tough as nails,” he says, sliding me the coffee cup.
I peer into the cup and see that he filled it up to the top. I breathe in the smell of fresh brew and am comforted immediately. This is the first thing I smell every morning. My dad starts the pot as soon as he wakes up, and the aroma floats all around the house.
I pick up the mug and take a sip. My god, this is terrible.
How does my dad drink this stuff? He guzzles it down as if it’s lemonade on a hot day.
I try to control the look on my face as my mom and dad join me at the table.
My mom sets down plates in front of us all.
She’s made us quarter omelets with some veggies and cheese inside, thick bacon slices, and we each get half of a blueberry muffin.
I immediately dig in, trying everything individually and then smashing it all together.
“Mom, this is so good,” I groan out, already wanting seconds.
“How come you never get excited about my breakfasts?” my dad asks.
I raise an eyebrow while taking another sip of coffee, forgetting the bitter taste and not concealing the surprise on my face.
Both my parents chuckle. “Just because you watch the Food Network doesn’t make you a critic,” he says, pointing a fork at me.
“My palate has refined with my old age,” I say, and am met with another belly laugh from my dad. He finishes his muffin and brushes the crumbs out of his thick beard.
“Thanks, hon, delicious as always,” he says to my mom. “Ty, meet me at the goat pen when you are done.”
“I thought I was feeding the ducks?” I ask with a mouthful of food.
“The ducks forage for food, silly,” he says with a wink and heads out to the ranch.
I should have worn my boots. The goat pen was a mess, and it took me way longer than expected to shovel and clean up.
Before I go inside, I stop by the duck pond at the back of the property and sit along the side.
The white-and-brown ducks aren’t swimming in the water.
It’s too cold, I think. Sometimes I’ll find a rogue goose in the pond that’s found its way to our farm.
I never understand why the ducks can’t tolerate the cold, but the geese can.
A couple of the ducks come over to me, expecting me to have food.
I pet one of them, which I call Puddles.
She’s my favorite duck because she’s the sweetest. Most ignore me, but Puddles always comes over to say hello.
“Well, you’d better get in your coop or you’re going to get too cold,” I tell her and stand up. She waddles back to the other ducks in the warm enclosure.
I pass my mom, who is elbow-deep in the garden, clearing out the dead branches and leaves.
In the winter, my parents cover most of the garden beds in hay to keep the soil moist. But in the spring and through the fall, it resembles a jungle.
My mom always tries to get me to learn the ropes, but I like being with the animals instead, and with my dad.
It’s my dream to take over the ranch from him and have lots of animals, and provide milk and eggs to the co-op. But I have a lot of learning to do.
“Ty!” I hear my name being called from a distance.
I look over and see my neighbor and best friend, Ryan.
He’s waving his arms up over his head, one gloved with a baseball mitt and the other with a baseball.
I throw my arm in the air and wave back.
I dart into the house, search for my mitt, and run back outside.
“See ya, Mom, I’m going to go play catch with Ryan,” I tell my mom and plant a kiss on her cheek.
“Sounds good, darling. Remember to be back before dusk for dinner and the Winter Parade later,” she says as I trot across the road to Ryan’s house.
Ryan and I play catch for what feels like hours.
We start close and then try to see how far we can be apart while still throwing and catching the ball.
We make it from one mailbox to another, which is far, since all the houses up in the hills have at least an acre or two in between each other.
Ryan and I have been friends since before we could talk.
Our moms were pregnant at the same time, according to my mom.
She said they met each other during a mommy-and-me yoga class.
Ryan and I both play on our middle school’s baseball team, and we talk about going pro one day.
I’m not sure how I’m going to run the ranch while being a professional baseball player, but I’m sure I’ll figure something out.
I do love our town, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like growing up somewhere else, like Portland or Seattle.
Big cities where you don’t know everyone, and there are always new things going on.
Auburn Hills couldn’t be any different from those places.
I know everyone, and everyone knows me. Even in school, the same kids are in my classes each year.
The Winter Parade is the same every year, too.
The fire department strings lights around their trucks and drives through Main Street.
Then it’s followed by the police cars and garbage trucks.
Then local businesses will decorate trailers themed with different holiday characters and drive through.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s always a fun time, and the coffee shop gives out hot cocoa, but it’s always the same.
That reminds me, I gotta head back for dinner.
I throw the ball back to Ryan and jog over to him. He catches the ball and raises his hand in the air, meeting mine in our secret handshake.
“See ya at the parade?” he asks.
“Yep, we’ll head down after dinner,” I say. We hit mitts before I spin and go back to my house.
December is one of my favorite months in Auburn Hills.
Mostly because of presents on Christmas, but also because the town decorates with lights everywhere.
I’m talking every building on Main Street.
Every window, door frame, and roof are lined with lights.
It’s as close to magic I think any of us will ever get.
Businesses start to put up lights in November and the town will start to decorate the light posts, but they don’t turn on anything until the Winter Parade the first week of December.
Which is exactly where we are heading to tonight.
I’m sat in the middle of the bench seat of my dad’s pickup truck between my mom and dad as we roll down to the festival.
We live up in the hills so it takes a bit to get into town, especially since it’s so crowded.
We park at the high school and walk over a few blocks.
Everyone shows up for this event and it’s clear as we walk toward the center of town, where everyone is gathering.
I wave to some friends from school, and then the three of us find a spot on the side.
My dad picks me up and I sit on his shoulders.
I’m not sure how much longer I can get away from getting a boost up here but my dad is a big guy, so maybe a few more years at least.
“Ten! Nine! Eight! …” the crowd starts to chant, including my parents.
My mom and dad are holding hands below me and I’m pumping my fist in the air.
Anticipation bubbles in my chest. Main Street is not completely dark, because the businesses have their lights on inside but the street itself is very dim.
We get to zero and there’s a pause. Everyone is quiet and waiting.
Then, as if pixie dust is sprinkled over the scene, one by one, businesses turn their lights on, starting at one end of the street a few blocks away and up to the other, until the whole drag is illuminated.
We all cheer and the parade starts, music plays, and the town is smiling and singing—pure magic.
“What did you get me?” I ask my mom, skidding to a stop on my knees beneath the Christmas tree.
Somehow my mom is already curled up in a robe with a hot cup of coffee in her hand.
My dad is in the kitchen getting cinnamon rolls ready.
He may not be the best chef, but he sure can bake.
And he only makes cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning.
“Open and find out,” my dad gravels as he joins my mom on the couch, reaching around her shoulders and giving her a kiss on her forehead.
I look at my mom, who gives me a nod, and start to rip open the giant box with my name in huge letters on the side.
My parents keep Christmas simple but special.
I only get a couple of presents, but one of them is usually something extraordinary.
I rip open the top of the box and nearly jump through the roof.
“A Stratocaster guitar in electric lime! This was limited edition!” I gasp. I can barely contain my excitement and leap over to my parents giving them both a big hug still clutching the guitar neck in my hand.
“Hey, wait, let me put my coffee down,” my mom says, setting her mug on the side table and pulling me into a hug. “You deserve it, bud, you’ve had a great year. We are so proud of you.”
“Where did you even find this? I didn’t even think they made this color anymore.” I ask.
“I’m your mother, I can do anything.” My mom says with a wink.
“Oh shit, the cinnamon rolls,” my dad says, leaping off the couch and hurrying into the kitchen. I caress the guitar and try to pick at the strings. “And we got you some lessons at the music studio in town. You’ll be a rockstar in no time,” my dad shouts from the kitchen.
My cheeks start to hurt from the massive grin on my face.
I lean against the couch, trying to play something that sounds like a song as my dad brings me a cinnamon roll.
My parents talk about the ranch and how they want to start to build a guesthouse at the back of the property.
The morning flows, as it does every Christmas.
We open the rest of the presents and then spend the day watching movies.
This is why December is my favorite month.