Passage IV

The Woods

Until I was nine, my family lived in an old house surrounded by what we called "the woods," a term that only begins to describe the place where my sisters and I played. More than a bunch of trees, the woods, each distinguished as domains in a set by what we found or did there.

In summer, we followed an overgrown path to a meadow of wild strawberries. With as much patience as optimism, we set berries on our shoulders, hats, or outstretched hands, hoping to attract a passing bird or two. Beyond the meadow, a brook ran beneath a hickory tree in whose shadow we looked for polliwogs or, later, the tiny frogs they became.

We became builders in the woods, establishing our forts on the edge of an apple orchard. One fort had stone walls and an overhead roof of pine boughs. Another, made from an old blanket, smelled like our attic at home. Our sturdiest fort circled a beech tree and featured a ladder up the trunk to a "second floor." In winter, there was an endless supply of the best building material of all, snow.

Meanwhile, we set out for the field beyond the orchard. There among the wildflowers lay a door, its presence a mystery; we didn't care to solve. To us it became a stage, on which we tap-danced or a raft on which we crossed the high seas in search of treasure. Occasionally, we would hide treasure of our own—a few coins or pieces of candy having an air of secrecy and a pair of broken binoculars, we took turns watching for invaders the horizon.

Part of the woods was a swamp. Over the years, it swallowed an assortment of shoes, boots, and sandals. It was a grim place on the day we found a baby bird lying dead in the tall reeds. We buried the creature, placing wildflowers, berries, and a few shiny stones from the brook into its tiny grave.

"Where have you been?" the grown-ups would ask us as we stumbled in the back door after one of our gritty excursions. Our answer—the woods—wasn't a lie, but it never seemed like the complete truth either. (59)