From first to third grade, my after-school routine would mainly look the same. Once the bell rang, I packed my backpack and walked to the front of school, where my brother was after he walked from the big building, where fourth through eighth grade had class.
From there, we’d make the ten minute walk to my grandma’s house.
During our walks, we’d talk about our days, make each other laugh, and lament over the dead squirrels that didn’t cross the road quickly enough. Well, I’d lament while Jerod was less understanding. “Squirrels are stupid,” is the phrase I remember him using.
Sometimes, special guests would join us on our walks. A kid who was a year ahead of me would sometimes walk with us, though he’d usually walk on the opposite side of the road so if we wanted to talk to him, we’d have to shout. Our favorite running gag was to sing the jingle “Red Robin,” to which our companion would reply, “Yum!” in a high-pitched squeak.
While there were occasions where Grandma would come get us, we walked a lot of the year, including the winter.
It was on one cold, snowy day when Jerod made his foray into freestyling. Neither of us were enjoying the weather, our cheeks pink and fingers freezing despite our gloves. Grandma’s house was still a bit away, and we felt that distance deeply.
“Ugh,” Jerod groaned. “I’m freezing my tuchus off!” In my family, we said “Move your tuchus” as often as “Move your tush.” I readily agreed with Jerod, already tired of the snow seeping into my shoes and the cold wind whipping against my eyes.
But instead of continuing to complain, Jerod started moving his head back and forth, getting into a rhythm. Then he went, “I’m freezing my, uh uh, my tuchus off.” The only way I can give this tune somewhat justice is to ask you to imagine that you’re hearing that line in the styling of a 2000s Timbaland song. Hope this helps.
While Jerod sang the refrain, which was just “I’m freezing my, uh uh, my tuchus off” over and over again, I bopped along, smiling at him. Then he got into the verse, which I sadly don’t remember, but I do remember that this gawky, pimply middle schooler flawlessly made a rap about walking in the freezing cold.
Though I arguably have the best memory in my family, I wish I could remember all the conversations, all the weird bits we probably did, all the random things Jerod and I laughed about during our walks. But even from what I can remember, they were definitely worth missing.
The walks also represented a transformation, a good one. When I’d see Jerod during the school day, he’d be my middle school brother, acting annoyed and exasperated when I screamed his name, tackling him in excitement in front of his friends.
But when we walked away from school and crossed the busy road, he became the person I’ve known since I was born. A fun-loving, hilarious, and strangely talented improviser who always included his little sister in his shenanigans. In the walks, we were equals, and it meant the world to me.
So naturally, I was dreading the day when he went to high school, when walks to Grandma’s became drives to Grandma’s with my two sisters. I remember worrying about what would happen when he left our grade school to attend an all-boys military academy. Would he become all grown-up? Would he not find our jokes funny anymore? Would he drift away?
Over ten years later, I am happy to say that not only did I have nothing to worry about, but over time, Jerod didn’t bother to put on his disinterested facade when he was with my sisters and me.
At twenty-six, he’s very much the same guy who entertained me on our walk to Grandma’s by singing about freezing his tuchus off.
Liana Hirner graduated from Calvin in 2024 with a bachelor’s in writing. She currently lives in her hometown of Aurora, Illinois and works full-time in a warehouse filled with books waiting to be sorted. Writing is her first love, followed swiftly by lattes and dark chocolate.
