I am 3 or 4 years old and we're at Blue Lake Park. I'm playing on one of the playgrounds -- for reference, it's the one that used to have the swings that looked like they were recycled from the swing ride at the fair, a double metal slide (stairs up the middle, slides on either side) and a metal jungle gym in the shape of a train engine. The floor of the playground is comprised of sand.
My parents are nearby, though they are not watching me directly. Maybe they're chatting with the extended family or with friends, whoever else is there. My brother is probably in his porto-playpen, too young to join in my adventures.
There's a boy about my age who is throwing sand. He's claimed ownership of the train engine, and won't let anybody get near it. Should any child attempt it, her eyes will sting from the impact of projectile sand. I have experienced this first-hand. No parents seem to be watching this unfold. The adults are all too preoccupied. Perhaps I even ask for help... but if so, none is given.
I decide to take matters into my own hands.
Anyone can fight with sand, but I can do one step better. I gather sand and grass in my hands, then meander over toward the boy, looking like I couldn't care less about his dumb old choo-choo train. When I get close enough, sashaaa! -- I get him, right in the face.
He gets upset. In fact, I think he tattles on me. But his mother takes one look at little innocent ol' me and does not give her son the benefit of the doubt. Either that or she chooses not to bother with me. She does not know my parents, what can she do?
I walk away, go over to my parents. I tell them nothing, though I am quite proud of my efforts. Proud of how I've stood up for myself and the other kids. I want to tell them all about how I thought to mix the natural elements for added effect! But something tells me it might not be best to share what I have done with grown-ups. They have strange, strange ideas about right and wrong, about justice.
No, this one will be my little secret.