A horde of little nieces and nephews descended on us last winter. They were close chums, but separated by the rigid hierarchy of their ages. And already the worm of competition had bored into their innocent egos. Even in fun, they constantly measured themselves against one another. Helen (5) looked up to Charlotte (6), Charlotte looked up to Clare (7). You’d have thought that eons separated them rather than mere years. A couple of weeks every year, Charlotte and Clare were the same age. For that brief interregnum, Charlotte felt equal to Clare and at peace with herself. Then Clare would leap ahead into the next realm of age and become once again a kind of deity, beyond reach,

Freezing cold and howling north winds were in the forecast, but this day was graced with unseasonable warmth. The great out-of-doors beckoned. Had they been teenagers, a day in the country would have promised excruciating boredom. But these kids hadn’t yet attained that jaded state. The instant they piled out of the cars they ran amok with spontaneous exuberance and the spirit of exploration. I like to think it was nature that inspired them, the freedom and open spaces the suburbs lack. But it was really the Mule.

The Mule is an all-terrain vehicle. It can be driven by a child. In the country, it can go anywhere. Oliver (8), a seasoned driver, took the wheel and ran the Mule over a puddle. He let out a yawp of pure joy as the vehicle slid this way and that, flinging up gouts of mud. “Off road!” he cried. Here was the outlaw life, Duck Dynasty kind of stuff. The other kids, possessed by the seductive power of motorized speed, screamed, “I want to drive!” The Mule presented unimagined liberation from the book of rules, a power beyond anything a Big Wheel or a bicycle could offer.

And so, in an open field by the pond, they took turns. Each one had his own driving style. Clare drove like speed demon, a 7-year-old Danica Patrick. Charlotte drove slowly, cautiously, with infinite deliberation. Thomas, a mere 3-year-old — sped round and round in tight circles.

“I want to drive again,” cried Helen.

“You must really like to drive this machine,” I said.

“It’s not that I like it so much,” she said firmly. “It’s that Charlotte got to drive two times.”

When the novelty of the Mule wore off, they fished. No matter that the fish weren’t biting in the nearly frozen pond. Fishing presented another opportunity for competition. Helen climbed up on a beached pontoon boat to give herself an advantage and let fly a cast so violent it launched her along with the lure. She sailed off her perch and landed in the muck. Her face turned tragic. Tears were on the way. Then she realized she was being watched and bravely mastered the urge to cry.

Just then the adults called for beer. Oliver, Clare and I roared off on an emergency run. On the way back, Clare, clutching the beers to protect them from breakage, suddenly asked with a look of grave concern, “How many adults are there?”

“Six,” I said.

“There are only five bottles,” she said, assuming the role of the concerned hostess, worried that one elder would have to forego his daily ration of carbohydrates.

When it was time for the kids to leave, tiny Thomas ran from the car, disappeared over the hilltop, tucked and rolled like one of Alice in Wonderland’s hedgehog croquet balls.

“I think he’s trying to escape,” I said. Oliver thought that over and made a solemn pronouncement.

“I would never want to escape this place,” he said. He was speaking, I suspect, not just of the countryside but also of his blessed age.