When I was small, my father’s woods were a vast wilderness. A place where I could easily get lost from the eyes of watchful parents or spying brothers, but not to myself; because even back then I knew the forest like the back of my smooth, soft hands. I was a frontiersman reading telegrams, telling of Indian raids, off the birch trees with my cousin, Jim. We were rival clansmen of our brothers’ team, sneaking and spying their fort location for later ambush as we built our own. We were adventurers, explorers in a land of tall trees and easy passage. Dad’s property line wasn’t to hold us back; it was something we protected, we sentries, guarding the front lines from unforeseen foes.

The summers seemed to run on unbounded; the heat or rain never a factor. Sometimes Jim and I would sit and pull the ferns apart while we sat in our fort and talked. Sometimes we’d go to the far side of the field to scavenge fruit from the apple tree and gather wintergreen berries from the area behind the garage. Like the animals we’d scurry through the bushes in secret, rather than traipse through the yard boldly. We’d then take our food, sit in the circle of pine trees on the hill, and fashion a small fire to entertain us for our communal feast, after creating a pit of stones, of course. Dad sure was angry about that, thinking that we were going to burn the woods down; us thinking that he was too naïve about our abilities to trust us to be safe. And he sure didn’t like us ripping the bark off the birch trees, either, though we knew it wasn’t enough to kill it…parents.

But Jim and I grew up one summer and didn’t even realize. We no longer inhabited the woods. Actual responsibilities started to fill our lives; homework, work, college, relationships, family. We quit building forts and Jim eventually built a house. My memories fill every acre of that property, now. Walking through those woods I am alone, but I am not lonely.

I have seen England, Hawaii, and Canada, now; my Father’s woods are not so vast a wilderness. I still know it like the back of my rough, scarred hands; I can close my eyes and see every part of all forty acres. I smile as I walk past the birch trees and fondly touch them like a friend. I am still an adventurer, though, visiting land’s my Father has never seen, and only my Grandfather has been close to. The passage through the trees is now overgrown and so am I. Dad’s property line now keeps the world out. Not only is it his refuge, it is my sanctuary; it is sacred to me.

The summers are so short; I rarely have time to enjoy them. I rarely see Jim anymore but when we talk, we still confide in the other. I still scavenge fruit from the apple tree on the far side of the field and gather wintergreen berries from the area behind the garage. Sometimes I still stride through the circle of pines and understand Dad’s anger about burning the woods down, as I laugh; but I still hold my stance that we were smarter than that. I wonder if he thinks I’ll set the world ablaze. But he still corrects many things I do and I accept it because I know I don’t know it all; and he still gives a lot of unnecessary advice…parents.

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