As a child, traveling the universe in both time and space is much easier. There are no quantum theories, or faster than light equations necessary. It only takes a bit of imagination. As an only child Chip had an abundance of that as well as an energy reserve that would put the Energizer Bunny to shame. When you don't have real brothers and sisters to share your play time with, you tend to develop a better imagination. Maybe not better in the quality department, but richer in the broadness of the brush strokes. Reality isn't there at every poorly thrown punch or misthought word to yank you back, with threats of telling parents.
It is when the neighbor kids are far away, and having a playmate around is quite an event, and your mother makes a concerted effort to see that other kids come to visit, so you can develop your social skills, that you can really go deep. It is like a cliff diver in Acapulco on the precipice 147 feet above the water at cliffs of La Quebrada, that you can build up enough velocity to go deep down below the surface. Every trip into the wooded acres next door was an exploration of "my jungle". A visit to a distant, childless Aunt was a trip through a haunted house. But the richest of all adventures was when there was an attic available.
Even if there were other kids around, I could draw them into my adventure with the richness of my descriptions. Much in the way that I draw you into my stories here in the Technowomb. The lushness of the green plants that crowd us in too close together, listening for the sounds of predators both of the animal kingdom and those of tribes who's primary food source was the hapless visitor to their land. All of this and more from the discovery of a single pith helmet
The discovery of an aviator's cap would take us all flying in the open cockpits of dual wing fighters, where you could actually see the look in the eyes of the enemy pilots as you danced the three dimensional ballet of bullets and banking turns. The explosion of a plane over the hill, or the long drawn out scream of a pilot blown from his plane fades as the distance between you and him increases. The tongues of flame dance to the tune of the machine guns like an epileptic doing the St. Vitus dance. The billowing smoke of the fires make us choke and cough with the sickeningly sweet smell of charred flesh mixed in.
On many occasions my soliloquies of description and adventure sent a playmate screaming in fear and covered in tears to a baffled parent. But the true companions, were those who could take it. The ones that no matter how intense the air got, nor the detail of gore, danger and death, could sway their dedication to these adventures that I led the way on. You could certainly separate the wheat from the chaff on a single outing of this nature with your mother's newest endeavor at nurturing your social skills.
I see that you are still here.