I grew up in a house in Mississippi. A year or so ago I went by it, and the present owners had cut all of the trees down that I used to play in when I was a kid. All of the trees. The whole yard had trees. Oak trees, and pine trees. They are all gone now.
I used to climb this old Magnolia tree that my folks planted when I was around two years old. It grew like wild fire and by the time I was able to climb it, it was thirty feet high with strong thick branches. I would climb it and swing from it like a damn monkey. When I was up there I would pretend that no one could see me. That I was the look out. That I was a soldier, or lion, or something hiding. Something ferocious. It made me feel like I had a place to go that was mine.
My dad also built us a fort that went up three stories, with bunk beds and electricity, in those same trees. There was even a working phone, and a cable swing that ran a hundred feet or so to another tree. It allowed me to be full of dreams. It allowed me to live in a fantasy world.
There were also some bushes that ran along the fence on the side yard that were thick and you could just disappear in them. I used to hide in there and make believe I was a hunter as I tried fruitlessly, to kill birds with my Daisy pump pellet rifle. All of this happened in those trees.
All of those trees are gone now.
4 comments:
Like a super fast time machine, your story took me back many many many years. It made me feel good.
I'm much older now, but I also remember...
Jim
Reminded me of Richard Brautigan's writing style back in the '70s. Short and sweet.
Thanks for stopping by. I had forgotten this blog is read occasionally.
As a friend pointed out to me, at least I have those memories. The trees might be gone, but the memories aren't.
It sure would have been nice if they would have kept them for another generation to experience.
Sometimes good memories are the better end results of the situations that created them. Especially when they take the shape of heart felt stories like yours.
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