Take tea. Sprinkle or tap in cinnamon. Put in a little sugar too, then milk. Even honey. Get a spoon or a knife. (Forks, toothpicks, and mighty fingers work as well). Neglect to stir. Get a small cloth, something special that does not mind becoming stained. Place it under the tea, hold all your instruments with the worse of your hands, grip the side of the tea with your better. Walk out to where you want to be. Place the cup down and sit.

When I was young, I went to a near all-black camp retreat under one of the Police Athletic League's summer youth programs. I was sometimes picked on. They always called me white boy. But there were special things about the camp, which grant me a favored look at present, despite the heavy prejudice. No doubt I learned what it is like to be a minority. Last in line, picked last, sports I didn't enjoy, words I didn't want to hear, and people who didn't want me.

Now hold your spoon like a pen and stir it up without touching the bottom; first it will swirl browns, become paler, then change into one solid light or slightly dark brown color. To the top will float several flakes of cinnamon. The cinnamon will wind around the edges and pull towards the center where a small sugary nucleus will form. Depending on how strongly you mixed, and your tea's distinct hue, you'll have before you something strong or weak, stale or sweet, made of water, honey, milk, and Carmella. Sweet can be strong; you'll find also watery and weak depend on its honey, sugar, and time left in stew.

We were in Appalachian Pennsylvania. There were trees of oak and yew and pine, big and hard and small sharp branches, paths of dust dirt and pebbles. We were all young inner-city assholes and dreamers being led by young Eagle Scout men with strong legs, small beer-guts, and 90's shades. There were at least 3 paths to get to every location, never straight, and they took us differently each day, from 5am until 9pm. We'd get up, get names called, go some odd direction down a long steep hill lined with tall gray stalks and grass, then pass a wall of trees, into a valley, semi-straight lines, around past an old 3-walled gym, through dirt lined with pines, over a log, forming one line to get by, into an open area where the cafeteria was, eat cereal and milk, get mail Tuesdays and Thursdays, hike back for 6-hour sports, arts and crafts, and an in-ground pool.

There may be a small membrane upon the top of the tea that can thicken if cooled. Depending on the strength and depth of your stir, you can reserve for yourself three different tastes in the same tea. You might first find the sip. If you are methodical and determined, keep the cup of tea perfectly level in your hand, or stoop over its holding. Dip your upper lip over the top of the tea and suck lightly. Open your eyes; see the cinnamon rush under your nose and draw in its brown smell. The membrane creates a barrier where the denseness of your tea does not make it down your throat. You'll capture a hot cinnamon flavor with tea. Your lips will warm and you will have the added way it travels into your mouth lightly, upon your tongue. Whiff it; your senses are your own drug, midnight or morning. Or try spoon. Dip pull and level, in front of you, wait. You're pausing to allow a small cooling, and you need not blow (though if you must, you certainly can). Bring it up to your mouth, then decide whether to bring the spoon all the way in to let the liquid fall unto your tongue, instead to sip it from the tip, or rather enter all and consume, inhaling it quickly to the back of your throat. Finally, you'll find the spoon too difficult to gather tea, or the suggestions outlined unsuitable for yourself. Just as well, always remove the spoon, knife or finger; any objects that mix with water add their own slight taste; metallic or skin tea is not an option. Drink it now however you like. Rapidly sapping it, going slow for the feel of warmth, or lightly while interested in everything else. If you have strong bare tea, the great fun then is to engulf it and claim fast your cup.

Then we hike back somewhere far, through a creek, get there — nowhere, just trees, a creek turning into a brook, pull out red flags and play Capture. That forest went into deeper forest, squirrels, and deer on the outskirts, birds and insects always made sounds. Some areas fleshed out into almost-forests, spread out into open fields with tall strangling grass never cut. That brook went creek, went river, waterfall, we waded young with fear and courage and ugly shoes. It nestled into a small shallow cradle we played in and pulled up moss rocks. We got wet and dirty, from the bottom of our boots to the back of our throats. There was a lake several miles away, 7 or 8 paths at that, we kayaked it, fell in with orange life jackets and swam around. Flowers and leaves floated the water's top. We never fished.

It can be mixed with plenty of alcohols. If you have tonic to boil, try tea and gin. If you're hard, have it with vodka (good vodka- we're not 16. Save bad vodka for harder fates and drinks). Try schnapps. Crème de menthe will change the color. Pour scotch.

Some nights we stayed out far past dark to play in those harvest fields, giant games of Nightmare or Scavenger Hunt. They took us just before dusk deep into the woods where we pitched tents, told ghosts stories by fire and ate smores. Got up that morning late for eggs, had cereal and milk. Then one day the camp counselors taught us how to make tea. Take bark from oak, or try this branch, take pines, throw it in there, see... tea's first name was cha, back when China took it from the rising earth and mountains into pottered bowls, now we know the secrets too, the Eagle Scout drops in a peppermint, waits until it melts in, serves it to us in metal stumpy cups. It's good, this tea, I think, looking out through thick trees, down past creeks up and around mountain tops, with falling pine-cones.