A Childhood Memory Worth Preserving

In a time before I or my family knew who I was. When fear was yet an unknown friend and adventure was hot on my heels. I remember the garden of my grandparents, my favorite playground. I was a pea carrier and my grandfather showed me how to take one finger and poke the ground just deep enough to make the perfect home for a little pea. There’s a strange level of excitement that comes with the responsibility of dirt poker. I took my job seriously and feverously, with much care, I reveled in the feeling of the dirt and the secret idea that maybe I’d poke a worm. And when the work was all said and done and all the peas had been planted, we’d sneak over to the raspberry bushes and fill our stomachs with the perfect predinner dessert. Our secret.

But the real memories come from the freedom outside of parental or grandparental oversight. Where a wriggling young child could get into some real mischief. Off we’d go, my sister and I and the neighbor kids, running straight for the forest. The place where you could escape the hot sun and play in a maze of wonderful smells and hidden treasures. The day my mother showed us where the rope swing lived, marked the beginning of the rest of the summer. A long rope, with an old wood plank, that with a running start could carry you gliding over a sea of stinging nettles. Our little legs safely too short to ever touch the rash-giving plants. I lost a shoe once, in that sea. I’m sure it’s still there. A single, small, pink croc alone amongst the nettles. I wonder if crocs can grow moss like all the trees that surround it.

Tree sap was the biggest tattle tale that we’d been wandering the woods. It stuck to your palms and jeans and made mom frown. Oh man, but nothing could stop me from climbing to the top of a tree where I knew a spectacular view lived. Up there you could watch the sailboats go by on a glittering ocean. And if there was a breeze that day, you could even catch the smell of salt. Of course, the tricky part was getting down, but that’s why Grandpa kept the ladder nearby. So if and when I got stuck, little messenger feet were deployed to interrupt the grownups. After many lonely tears and enough time to drag a ladder to the offending tree, my grandfather would pop his head up and reassure me of my bravery. He’d offer strong callused hands, seasoned with years of wood work and certainly some tree climbing of his own, and help me find my way down. Often he’d pause up there for a moment and together we’d enjoy the view. He’d point out a sailboat and I’d wipe my tears to look. Then after he’d successfully tricked me into catching my breath, he’d calmly outline the task in front of us. He’d never let me off easy. “Now,” he’d say in that tone of voice that suggested we were a team with a problem to solve, “you got yourself up here. And I’m here to help, but you’re going to get yourself down.” His voice was so level and matter-of-fact that I couldn’t help but believe him. And he was right, I could and would get myself down. At the time I would be mortally embarrassed, because this was a continuous habit of mine, getting stuck in trees. But now I look back and feel only warmth. There’s something so reliable about my grandfather and his ladder, that when I come to think of it, I’m not sure that I was ever really scared. Kids are so resilient, that as embarrassed as I was in one moment, off I’d run in the next ready again to play in the woods.

I remember raucous games of hide and seek. There was a whole neighborhood of possibilities and still I found the best spot. Grandpa’s garden lived up on the edge of what I suppose you could call a minor cliff. The base was made of large rocks covered in ivy and horsetails. Horsetails, if you’ve never heard of it, are these green fluffy bush plants. I will say, they do not look like horse tails; fox tails I think are more accurate. Interspersed amongst them are their devilish look alike, fennel. If you can tell the difference, you can grab at the fennel leaves with greedy hands. And with your pudgy child fingers you can smush the leaves to release one of the best scents in the world. Crushed fennel smells like anise or licorice— which to me was the smell of my favorite cookies. Spice cookies. I feel sad for people who haven’t had pfeffernuse made by a grandmother who was trained by her grandmother. My grandmother, a woman so practiced in the art of making delicious things, that I don’t think I ever saw her use a measuring cup.

So, perhaps, half the appeal of this hiding spot, was the smells that came along with it. In addition to the rocks and the ivy and the horsetails and the fennel, once you got far enough up the cliffside you’d reach these dense juniper like bushes. Those hedges that I swear I never see anymore, but that I saw this morning that made me flash back to such wonderful times. They have scaley hand-like leaves, such that junipers have. And they’re not skinny bushes either; they have large trunks as though one day, if someone let them, they’d become strong, powerful trees. But alas, they stay thick, powerful bushes instead. Such that little hands would love to climb on and struggle through and hide in for the perfect game of hide-and-seek. Don’t tell, but this is one of the most efficient ways to get sap all over your clothes and leaves stuck in your hair. Often these bushes would create the best little pockets of shaded area, just right for a small body to clamber in. And inside was a whole world of imagination. If one wanted to pretend to be a hobbit, in their hobbit hole, this might be a great place to do so.

And while the world outside bustled by, there you could sit, breathing in the wonderful earthy smells, away from it all under the juniper bushes.