Tread Softly

In today's story, Tread Softly, a young woman reflects on lessons she learned from her older brother.

Today's prompt was inspired by a book of the same title. When I was young, I loved Tread Softly by Corinne Gerson. I recently tracked down a copy and was delighted to read it again. 

As always, this story was written from the prompt, with no planning and very little editing. If you enjoy today's story, please share it with your friends and leave a review for Freely Written. Thank you!


More about Susan Quilty

Susan Quilty mainly writes novels, including two standalone novels and her current YA series: The Psychic Traveler Society.  Susan's short stories for Freely Written are created during quick writing breaks and shared as a way to practice her narration skills before she dives into recording audio versions of her novels.

Website:  SusanQuilty.com
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Transcript

Below is the transcript for Season 1, Episode 112 of Freely Written, a podcast by author Susan Quilty:

 Welcome to Freely Written where a simple prompt leads to a little unplanned fiction.

[Light piano music]

Hi, friends! I’m Susan Quilty and today’s prompt is Tread Softly.

Today’s prompt was inspired by one of my favorite childhood books by the same name. I recently tracked down a copy of Tread Softly by Corinne Gerson and I was delighted to read it again.  

The book is about a 12-year-old girl who is being raising by her grandparents after her parents were killed in a car accident. Kitten barely remembers her parents but finds comfort in a secret daydream family. One day, she finds herself talking about her fantasy family as if they were real, which leads to a summer babysitting job where she has to then keep up the ruse. 

I wrote today’s story using my usual process. Which means I sat down with the prompt to write whatever might come up, with no planning and very little editing. 

And now, I’ll share that story with you:

Tread Softly

When I was seven, we moved to a farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Most of its farmland had been sold off to make way for new houses, but our house still had a large backyard with a lush garden. Just beyond that, a winding path led to a stretch of woods with a stream and a small pond. We didn’t own the woods, but it felt like our own little world. 

My brother Steve was 13 when we moved to the farmhouse. I was sad to leave my friends in our old neighborhood, but Steve was excited to be outside of town. He loved nature. Hiking, camping, fishing, all of it. He taught me to love it, too. Eventually. 

At first, the only thing I liked about the farmhouse was the window seat in my bedroom. It had a pale blue cushioned seat and big yellow pillows to bunch behind my knees and back. The windows by the seat opened with a small crank and only opened enough to let in the summer breeze. 

We moved over the summer, and I spent those first few days nestled in my window seat, reading, looking out over the garden, and missing my friends. One day, Steve came in and threw up his hands in disgust.

“It’s a beautiful day and you’re in here?!” He couldn’t believe that I was content sitting by a window when we had a big backyard and the whole woods beyond. 

I told him to go make some friends and leave me alone, but the houses here were far apart and Steve wasn’t too fond of the few boys he’d met so far. 

He tried to get me outside with promises of butterflies in the garden and frogs in the wooded pond. It was very tempting, but I was stubborn. If my parents saw me outside, having fun with Steve, they would think I wasn’t mad at them anymore, and I wasn’t ready to let them off the hook. They moved me away from my friends and they needed to see how much that had hurt me. 

I said as much to Steve. He said I was only hurting myself and went back outside. I thought about that after he left. I loved to read, but staying in my room day after day was losing its appeal. Besides, my parents couldn’t see me being miserable if I stayed in my room. So, I took my book and went outside, squinting in the sunlight. 

Steve was doing something over by the wood pile when I came outside. I had planned to ignore him and just find a place to read by myself, but his crouching and peering tugged at my curiosity. 

As I stomped over, still trying to show anger in case my parents were watching from the windows, Steve looked over his shoulder and waved me to a stop. 

“Tread softly,” he called back, “there’s a family of mice in the wood pile. You don’t want to scare them off.”

I wanted to see the mice, so I slowed my steps and walked gently across the grass. Sure enough, when I crouched beside Steve, I saw a tiny face peep out of a space between two logs. The mouse had pale rounded ears, a pointed nose, and nervously twitching whiskers. 

“It’s so small,” I whispered, then laughed as another mouse popped its head out directly above the first one. They pulled back at my laughter but crept forward when Steve coaxed them back with a bit of bread. 

As I watched the mice nibble on Steve’s bread, I forgot to pout about the move. When Steve brought me into the woods and showed me the frogs in the pond, I forgot to be angry at my parents. Our new world opened up to me, and I forgot everything but a yearning to seek out the tiny creatures living around us. 

Tread softly became Steve’s mantra as he guided me through the woods or paused to study new flowers that bloomed in the garden. Tread softly to not scare the animals. To walk and crouch among them. Tread softly to keep from being stung by a startled bee. 

“Think how big you are to a mouse or a bee,” Steve would say. “You’re a giant crashing through. You’ve gotta walk soft and move slow if you want them to feel safe around you.”

Over that summer, and in the years to come, Steve taught me all about the nature surrounding our home. We learned to stay very still when deer passed through the woods, watching them pick their way over fallen leaves and branches. In the spring, we knew when and where to find the largest patches of wild bluebells. 

Our parents added a firepit and a trampoline to the backyard. They let us set up two tents in a clearing at the close edge of the woods. Our friends came over to roast marshmallows and camp out. We made the farmhouse our own bit of heaven. 

It was hard when Steve left for college, but I knew he had to go, and he came home to visit during school breaks and sometimes on long weekends. During one of his visits, when I was fourteen, I had a group of friends over including one special friend: Jason.

I had wanted Steve to meet Jason for a long time. Since the beginning of school when Jason first asked me out. But I hadn’t said a word about it to Steve. I wanted to play it cool. Have him meet Jason in a group. Low pressure. 

The timing worked out. I was with my friends by the firepit when Steve came home. He walked toward us across the yard, and I jumped up to meet him. Running to grab his arm and pull him forward, showing him off. 

After a quick introduction, Steve perched on a thick log and watched me with my friends. Jason was clowning around, the way he always did in a group. Someone asked about roasting marshmallows and Jason bellowed, “Yeah, woman, get us some s’mores!” 

It was a running joke, his ordering me around in front of his friends. My friends rolled their eyes and dramatically told him to shut up, which only egged him on. 

“Come on, ladies,” Jason said, “it’s the natural order. Women serve the food; men just hunt it.”

“You’re a hunter?” Steve’s voice was low and even. I knew what he thought of hunting: that it was sometimes necessary but not a game or a sport.

“Yeah, I hunt. Took down a four-point buck last season, and my dad’s taking me to Canada on a wolf hunt this winter. Bam!” He mimed shooting a rifle and Steve flinched. 

“Are we having s’mores or what?” someone else asked and I jumped up to get what we’d need from the kitchen. Steve followed, offering to help.

Steve watched me as I pulled marshmallows and graham crackers from the cabinets. We always kept s’mores supplies on hand. I was adding a stack of chocolate bars to my tray when Steve asked, “Do you like that guy?”

“Jason?” I rearranged the chocolate and reached for a stack of napkins. “Yeah, I do.”

Steve was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you like the way he treats you? All that stuff about women taking care of men?”

I looked out the window. Jason was playing keep-away with Robbie’s hat while the others laughed. Suddenly, I wished I had invited Jason over without the others. 

“He’s not like that when we’re alone,” I explained. “He just shows off around his friends.”

“And you don’t call him on that?” Steve’s voice was mild, curious, but I knew he was upset.

“Look, Jason is just…” I looked out the window again. Jason had given back Robbie’s hat and was sitting with his arms folded over his chest. His knee was bouncing slightly, and I knew he was impatient for me to get back outside. 

“It’s like with the mice or bees,” I told Steve. “Jason gets insecure around his friends. I just, tread softly, you know? Try to make it easier on him.”

I looked at Steve then and saw the sadness in his eyes. 

“Jason is a person,” he said slowly. “He’s not a mouse or a bee. Don’t make yourself small for him. If he can’t handle you… If you being strong scares him away, then let him run away.” His eyes flashed as he added, “And if he stings you, you sting him back. Or better yet, tell me and I’ll be happy to squash him under my boot.”

His anger brought heat to my cheeks. 

“Steve, that’s sweet, but I don’t need you to protect me.”

We stood in the kitchen, our eyes locked the way they sometimes did, sharing our years together without words. 

“You’re right,” he said at last. “You don’t need me to protect you.”

I took a shaky breath and reached for the tray, but Steve wasn’t done. He stepped closer and put his hand on my arm to stop me.

“I taught you to tread softly, to be gentle in this world, but now I need you to learn how to be loud, too. How to speak up and stand up for yourself.”

It was hard to keep meeting his intense gaze, but I also couldn’t look away. 

Steve pressed his lips together, then said, “Hannah, any boy you like—no, scratch that. Any person in your life should care about your feelings as much as you care about theirs. We should all tread softly around each other, and when others don’t, when they hurt us, we have to speak up, even if that means the end of that relationship. Because no one should make you feel small just to make themselves feel bigger. Do you understand?”

And I did. 

Steve went back to school and by his next visit, I didn’t have a boyfriend. But I was learning how to find the balance between treading softly and speaking up, and how to find the friends who valued that balance, too. 

The End

Thanks for joining me. I hope you enjoyed this story break. I feel like this story could have gone on a bit longer, so maybe I can revisit Hannah and Steve another day. As always, if you enjoy Freely Written, please share your favorite stories with your friends. You can also learn about my novels and other projects at my website, SusanQuilty.com. 

Until next time, try a little free writing of your own. Let go of any planning and see where your imagination takes you. 

[Light piano music]