Not a tame hill
THE hill that my brother and I knew growing up was not the tamed and cut property that Braaten Hill is today. Scrub brush and wild high grasses grew unencumbered over wide open spaces between dilapidated stone walls and encroaching woodlands. The land would take time to groom; ten to twenty years to at least appear managed.
While mom and dad were busy wrestling a house into a home, my brother and I ventured out from our hinterland outpost to explore its boundaries; Lewis and Clark in knee-high tube socks, sneakers and Tough Skins (that would eventually become shorts once the knees had worn through).
We never really knew where the boundaries were between our land and Grandpa’s land, or the Hibbard’s land, or Uncle Bobby’s land. There was a difference. We felt safe crossing Grandpa’s boundary, fairly safe crossing Uncle Bobby’s–he was the huntsman of the family–but definitely not safe crossing the Hibbard’s property. The Hibbards didn’t like us, or so we thought. We didn’t really know them, of course, but that only fueled wild speculation in the fertile soil of our shared imagination. Would they notice our little footprints on their side of the stone wall? Were there booby-traps set to snare trespassers? “Did you hear that twig snap behind the bushes?” Run!!
I don’t ever remember my parents telling us “Now, don’t venture off too far. Stay where I can see you.” No, it was usually something like, “That’s it, you’re going outside for the rest of the day.” Within minutes, play clothes were rustled up, sneakers were tied with double-knots and we were whooshed out the door. “Click.” That was the sound of the dead bolt turning after the door was closed behind us. Through the door’s window we could see mom saying, in muffled tones, “you’re not allowed back in until dinner. Go play!” Or was it, “Don’t come back until it’s dark”? I don’t remember. But we didn’t usually stay out past dark. Our stomachs led us back home in plenty of time for dinner.
We were always hungry, or “starving,” as we’d put it. We’d snack all day if we were allowed to. Correction, we’d snack all day if we could find enough food and if we weren’t habitually locked out the house. But our periodic scouring the cupboards for food is another story. When outside for more than a few hours, we’d survive on sour grass, grandma’s raspberries and grandma’s very, very sour rhubarb. I even tried some kind of tree bark, which smelled like wintergreen mints but tasted pretty much like plain old wood. Why would God make something smell that good if you couldn’t eat it? Unfortunately, after this wintergreen bark discovery, several trees suffered a humiliating, blotchy de-barking…
© 2010, admin. All rights reserved.