On tall trees and time

White pines dotted the hill behind my childhood home.  These trees and the pond areas in their midst were a cherished part of my childhood experiences.  Venturing up the hill to explore often meant climbing the pines and my hands acquired a permanent icing of pitch.  Looking out from the branches, I could see Six Mile Creek and the surrounding fields.

During warm weather, adventures included gathering wild berries and identifying various species of plants and animals that shared the hill with me.  Much of what I learned about wild things came from my grandmother, Alice and an avid gardener and naturalist named Doris.  Doris lived on the banks of Six Mile, another area of avid exploration.

Colder months we would walk up the hill to the largest pond with our ice skates.  The pond was co-owned by an adjoining landowner who would often plow the surface for us.  My brother Ed would build a fire while the youngsters among us strapped on our skates and gave the surface a final shovel before dancing about in our crystalized wonderland.

Dotted among the pines were various discarded vehicles, remnants of my uncle, father and later brother’s fascinations with automobiles.  When snow blanketed the hill, we would paraffin the bottom of one of the car hoods and drag it repeatedly to the top of the hill.  Loading as many people as would fit into the hoods underside, we would glide down the hill at high speeds, a practice that was prohibited after the first broken arm – I can’t recall whose it was.

On my own most days, my favorite activity by far was climbing the pines and other area trees.  More than once, I lost my footing or ventured onto weaker branches and took tumbles.  In most cases, the clustered boughs lightened my fall and I would emerge with only scraps.  Once I fell to the bottom, and woke up on my back, looking up at the spread of branches above me.

The adventure associated with the climb and the elevated view it offered was a powerful incentive.  There was something about being up closer to the sky, in the canopy where only the more daring animals ventured, that stayed with me even as I moved into adulthood.  Likewise, I retained my love of evergreens, despite them being less desirable climbing trees.

Given these early hilltop experiences (all of my grandparents are gone, and the land is no longer in the family), I was thrilled when we found our little piece of paradise in Canadice on the site of a former Christmas tree farm.  Tall Norway spruce surrounds our home and the half-acre pond toward the back of our small property.  Last winter, with the holidays approaching and snow on the trees, I offered up my climbing skills to bring the starter end of a light string to the top of one of the tallest trees, next to our garden.  My husband, Todd, would hear nothing of it, mumbling something about me not being a kid anymore.  So I let it drop.

As the end of 2017 approached and opportunity to gather with family and friends increased, I again mentioned my light fascination and hinted at a climb.  A good friend had arrived and offered me a delightfully perfect pair of boots that he had ordered and failed to return.  Our feet are about the same size, and he thought they might work well for me.  I tried them on and was walking about, thankful for this wonderfully appropriate early gift when Todd called us outside.  Night had fallen and we walked with him toward the pond. 

Ahead of me was the tallest pond side spruce, illuminated with an impressive array of glittering light – projected up from the ground.  Never one big on gift-giving seasons, I was, nonetheless, thrilled.  Although I know that Todd’s ulterior motive was to keep me from venturing into the tall tree, the effect of this Night Stars© display combined with new boots for walking – and climbing trees, of course, is what giving, and receiving, should be. 

D.E. Bentley

Editor, Owl Light News