"The Woods"
A hundred miles and twenty-five years east of here, there once stood a stand of woods. I’m not a good judge of acreage but I’d guess they consisted of half of a quarter section; maybe a little less. To this day I have no idea who owned the property. But since it bordered my yard a few feet from the back door of the little apartment I grew up in, the neighborhood kids and I considered it ours.
Everyone referred to it as simply the Woods, and from my earliest memories until the ninth grade, chances were that’s where I could be found so long as we weren’t having Thanksgiving, Christmas or a hurricane.
Biologists talk about diversity of habitat and carrying capacity. When it came to providing a place to grow up and make memories, the Woods' carrying capacity was virtually unlimited. The Woods were so diverse, they could double as the jungles of South Vietnam to a group of boys playing war one day, and mimic a private hunting preserve to that same group of boys who wanted to scratch out a few doves, squirrels and rabbits the next. Among its many iterations, the Woods served as a campground; a place for curious boys to stash a Playboy lifted out of someone’s older brother’s room; a perfect replica of the set from Raiders of the Lost Ark; an ideal place for a first kiss.
I knew every trail, every opening, every twist and every turn. Even today, I can close my eyes and trace with my finger in the air all the paths and trails – from the opening at the head of the main trail just a few long strides from my back door, all the way to where the woods stopped abruptly at what was then new development. Townhomes and apartments served as our southern and western borders, while my back yard bounded us on the east and an asphalt street – named Rogers Street of all things – hemmed our northern edge.
Most days, I’d burst out of the back door headed for the Woods in full stride; I gave nary a goodbye to my mother as the door slammed behind me. Depending what was on the day’s agenda – whether I was meticulously packing my “army stuff” for a full day of playing war, or simply planning a structure-free day of hide-and-seek, dirt clod fights or BB gun shooting – my mother may have gotten to see almost nothing of me before I disappeared into the Woods. It was a different time back then, or so it seemed. A better time. A time when a mother could allow her son to explore such a vast expanse on his own and know that he’d be back come dark. I never gave it a second thought at the time. Now that I am a father, however, I cannot conceive of how my mother was able to do it. I am grateful that she was, though, because it gave me the freedom and the confidence to explore and learn things on my own; to confront a variety of situations and to prevail over them.
Not to mention the fun I had. I can still remember how the spikes on a green pine cone would leave paper-like tears along my palm and fingertips as I heaved it like a hand grenade at my friends. I remember the unforgettable aroma of the dirt. The sound the cicadas made on warm evenings, and their hollow, crunchy sheds that still clung to the pine trees after they matured and flew away.
The way I choked and hacked and gagged after a friend and I inhaled our first cigarettes sitting atop a huge dirt pile way back in the Woods near their western edge. The way dirt clods would disintegrate into puffs of grayish-black sand upon connecting with their targets when conditions were dry; the grease-like smears and considerable bruises they left when conditions were wet. How we incinerated the first dove we ever tried to cook over an open flame, yet forced ourselves to be men and eat it anyway – and pretended to savor it.
And I remember the way life and death felt in my hands when I picked up a bird or a squirrel I’d shot with my beloved Daisy PowerLine 880. I experience to this day the same curious mixture of pity and regret and thanks and exhilaration when a quail or dove are brought back to me, or when I lift a fallen doe’s head by the ear, or when I hoist a longbeard by its feet. I have an enormous sense of gratitude for the place where I first came to know and appreciate that emotion because, without that emotion, what we do becomes not hunting, but merely killing.
The Woods were such an immensely special and important part of my growing up, it’s hard to conjure up a memory of my adolescence that doesn’t include them. They are the backdrop of countless photographic records of my childhood. They were a source of enormous enjoyment for me; no doubt a source of consternation for my mother. But they afforded me a happy, confident childhood and first ignited in me a love of the outdoors.
Today, any time I catch just the right whiff of honeysuckle or trod along freshly tilled ground consisting of just the right dark sandy soil, I am transported back in time to a place where a happy young boy ran free as a bird through the wild acres of his youth. Now, thanks to the Woods and all the special times and memories they provided, the man who long ago was once that joyful young boy still enjoys great days outdoors.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
Everyone referred to it as simply the Woods, and from my earliest memories until the ninth grade, chances were that’s where I could be found so long as we weren’t having Thanksgiving, Christmas or a hurricane.
Biologists talk about diversity of habitat and carrying capacity. When it came to providing a place to grow up and make memories, the Woods' carrying capacity was virtually unlimited. The Woods were so diverse, they could double as the jungles of South Vietnam to a group of boys playing war one day, and mimic a private hunting preserve to that same group of boys who wanted to scratch out a few doves, squirrels and rabbits the next. Among its many iterations, the Woods served as a campground; a place for curious boys to stash a Playboy lifted out of someone’s older brother’s room; a perfect replica of the set from Raiders of the Lost Ark; an ideal place for a first kiss.
I knew every trail, every opening, every twist and every turn. Even today, I can close my eyes and trace with my finger in the air all the paths and trails – from the opening at the head of the main trail just a few long strides from my back door, all the way to where the woods stopped abruptly at what was then new development. Townhomes and apartments served as our southern and western borders, while my back yard bounded us on the east and an asphalt street – named Rogers Street of all things – hemmed our northern edge.
Most days, I’d burst out of the back door headed for the Woods in full stride; I gave nary a goodbye to my mother as the door slammed behind me. Depending what was on the day’s agenda – whether I was meticulously packing my “army stuff” for a full day of playing war, or simply planning a structure-free day of hide-and-seek, dirt clod fights or BB gun shooting – my mother may have gotten to see almost nothing of me before I disappeared into the Woods. It was a different time back then, or so it seemed. A better time. A time when a mother could allow her son to explore such a vast expanse on his own and know that he’d be back come dark. I never gave it a second thought at the time. Now that I am a father, however, I cannot conceive of how my mother was able to do it. I am grateful that she was, though, because it gave me the freedom and the confidence to explore and learn things on my own; to confront a variety of situations and to prevail over them.
Not to mention the fun I had. I can still remember how the spikes on a green pine cone would leave paper-like tears along my palm and fingertips as I heaved it like a hand grenade at my friends. I remember the unforgettable aroma of the dirt. The sound the cicadas made on warm evenings, and their hollow, crunchy sheds that still clung to the pine trees after they matured and flew away.
The way I choked and hacked and gagged after a friend and I inhaled our first cigarettes sitting atop a huge dirt pile way back in the Woods near their western edge. The way dirt clods would disintegrate into puffs of grayish-black sand upon connecting with their targets when conditions were dry; the grease-like smears and considerable bruises they left when conditions were wet. How we incinerated the first dove we ever tried to cook over an open flame, yet forced ourselves to be men and eat it anyway – and pretended to savor it.
And I remember the way life and death felt in my hands when I picked up a bird or a squirrel I’d shot with my beloved Daisy PowerLine 880. I experience to this day the same curious mixture of pity and regret and thanks and exhilaration when a quail or dove are brought back to me, or when I lift a fallen doe’s head by the ear, or when I hoist a longbeard by its feet. I have an enormous sense of gratitude for the place where I first came to know and appreciate that emotion because, without that emotion, what we do becomes not hunting, but merely killing.
The Woods were such an immensely special and important part of my growing up, it’s hard to conjure up a memory of my adolescence that doesn’t include them. They are the backdrop of countless photographic records of my childhood. They were a source of enormous enjoyment for me; no doubt a source of consternation for my mother. But they afforded me a happy, confident childhood and first ignited in me a love of the outdoors.
Today, any time I catch just the right whiff of honeysuckle or trod along freshly tilled ground consisting of just the right dark sandy soil, I am transported back in time to a place where a happy young boy ran free as a bird through the wild acres of his youth. Now, thanks to the Woods and all the special times and memories they provided, the man who long ago was once that joyful young boy still enjoys great days outdoors.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
posted by Days Afield Host | 8:35 PM
<< Home