They say a river runs through it. “Hrumph,” you say, “hardly a river, more like a wash. Sometimes it even runs dry.”
We moved into the house at the end of March after a hefty renovation. Walls moved, hardwood laid, bookshelves built-in where a closet once stood. No, I didn’t do the work. My part was driving the ninety minutes to check on the builder every couple of weeks to see if he needed anything. December through March, my trips into Gettysburg always ended in snow. Not feet of snow or even inches. This is a few miles north the Mason Dixon line. We’re almost a southern state. Just a dusting, reliable, ever present, a reminder of the deep chill and bitter winds that seemed to blow daily.
As the days warmed up, crocuses sprouted, I assessed our yard. A wire fence that once penned a terrier encircled the back of the property, abutting the woods. It formed a cage, imprisoning me like that little dog as I did my mundane chore of mowing the lawn. It wasn’t until I pulled the posts, rolled the wire, and sold the whole mess for scrap on Craigslist that I ventured beyond my property line. This was July. More effective than the fence was the barrier of poison ivy that guarded the border. I gave up on the woods until winter.
On the first snow, Sophie, just a toddler, and I crept into the trees. Thirty yards in we found the stream. Four feet wide, the depth unknown. A thin layer of ice covered the water. Sophie found sticks to bore holes, starting small at first, a poke here, a crack there, creating art. Quickly we went too far. The ice in the center fell through leaving a jagged brim on either side of the stream. “Is that a face?” A pair of eyes peered from beneath the water. I grabbed Sophie by the arm and pulled, probably too hard, to move her away from the water. My heart raced as I gingerly moved in for a closer look.
A bullfrog—not a real one, those burrowed into the mud for the winter some weeks earlier—sat submerged next to a turtle and a snail. We found ceramic statues, the size of squirrels, left for us by who knows who, God knows when. We fished them from the frigid water, our gloveless hands stiffening as we grabbed. Because they were freezing, I tucked the statues between the sleeves and body of my winter coat. We returned home to assess our booty.
In the two neighborhoods I lived in growing up, each of my streets terminated in a dead-end at the edge of a wooded tract. These spits of nature abutting development were temporary. The Washington, DC suburbs hadn’t grown enough yet to bulldoze more trees and create additional housing.
All my childhood memories take place in those woods: we searched for salamanders and crayfish under rocks in a stream; raced bikes through the tight, curvy trails; commandeered a treehouse abandoned by older teens; and drank stolen gin from peanut butter jars after sunset. My goal, my desire was to give my kids the same experience.
Armed with Roundup and a garden rake, I set out to carve a path into our woods. As it grew, sections of the path took on names that emerged naturally through observation and conversation: the ‘Clearing’ where I constructed a fort made from pallets purchased for a buck each at our garden center; the ‘Bend’ where the path made an abrupt left turn to avoid a bank of thorn bushes; the ‘Danger Zone’ passed under a broken tree supported only by a dead, decaying branch; and finally to the stream, which I bridged with huge quartz rocks that I couldn’t lift now, eighteen years later, if my life depended on it. Beyond the stream, the woods opened into easily navigated animal paths that didn’t require human intervention.
I’d like to say our time in the woods was a big part of my kids’ life. We spent untold hours exploring every inch, giving catchy names to anything out of the ordinary, such as the ‘Wind Sheer’ where something resembling a tornado must have touched down pushing all the trees outward from a center point; or the ’Locust Grove’ where five or six spikey honey locust trees randomly grew, even though we found no others anywhere else the woods. I should ask my kids how they remember our explorations. Really, what I should say is those woods are a big part of my life as it intersects with my kids’.
Over the years, we found more ceramic statues in the stream. Years ago, I assume, someone set up a scene on the streambank, a tea party of reptiles and amphibians that washed into the water during storms. The statues were strewn along a forty-foot section of the stream. With every find, we were flooded with feelings of excitement and creepiness.
The path is long gone, grown over. One summer afternoon, two park police officers knocked on my front door. Wearing pistols and tasers on their belts and mirror sunglasses that hid their angry eyes, they chastised me for creating a path through the woods. As my kids hid behind the curtains, peering out the front windows, the police threatened me with prosecution for property destruction if I made any more modifications.
With the regrowth of the poison ivy wall at the woods’ edge, we only venture beyond our property line in the dead of winter, as snow falls and blankets the world with its muffled hush. Because it hasn’t snowed for a few years, those woods that once felt like an extension of my yard are alien to me.
My kids are adults now, and probably uninterested in revisiting these childish haunts. They need to live twenty more years before that sort of nostalgia tugs at them. We’ve thrown away the ceramic statues, they lived a respectful second life on our front porch, but most cracked over the years with the repeated exposure to winter weather. Eli saved the bullfrog, though. He placed it outside the window of his basement bedroom. It gazes into the house like one of my cats when accidently locked out overnight.
I’m not sure why Eli kept the bullfrog. Maybe some nostalgia is already peeking through. In my family we each have memory boxes, plastic bins crammed with odds and ends from our past. And isn’t that really the point? We save bits of our lives, trinkets really, just enough to jog our memories, or maybe just jog the feeling of a memory, of how it once felt to explore the woods behind your house with your dad.
~ ~ ~
As a memoirist, I try to capture events exactly as I remember them. In this case, I shook up the timeline to smooth out the narrative. I also omitted Susan from the story even though she was often exploring alongside us. The story seemed to flow easier that way.
Original photo by Martino Pietropoli on Unsplash
The Other Stuff 
Wow Jeff! I felt like I was right there with you. A well written memoir (memoirette?) that makes me wish I’d had woods to play in instead of an alley or sidewalk.
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I think kids are born to explore and will generally adapt to their environment. My father grew up in Brooklyn and he has similar stories of exploration, only his include back allies and the subway. Growing up, I was always jealous of that. I truly hope your well. Whenever your name pops up, I take an extra minute to think good thoughts.
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I loved this description of the adventures you had with your kids. Especially this line, “They need to live twenty more years before that sort of nostalgia tugs at them.”
And the names you all had for the different areas are great. Sitting on the other side of the memory making, you have me thinking of all the little things we do to wander together that might be remembered. Thank you for that gift! 🙂
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It’s apparent to me, based on your tales, that you are building great memories with your kids that you (and hopefully they) will carry the rest of your lives.
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A nice bit of story telling, thanks Jeff.
~
Coincidentally I passed through my childhood neighborhood yesterday. It’s a bourgeois suburb now but back then it had a creek (now completely covered over) with a wild dirt track to one side (that is now dull tarmac with cement gutters and sidewalks). There used to be lots of things to explore along that creek. A poultice of speed bumps and crazy roundabouts now frustrate motorists and frighten away adventurous children. But it’s not as scary as your park police.
DD
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Writing this has me itching to go back and see what my woods have become. As I was preparing to move out of my house, that area was under construction. I don’t think I ever drove through to see the finished product. The park police incident was definitely a low point, and I could write far more about the whole thing from a mental health/OCD perspective. In hindsight and with medication I can see the whole path-building fiasco was pretty f****ed up.
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I listened to a funny BBC radio serial last night – Ed Reardon’s Week. Ed sneaks into the forest at night to bury his pet cat and to erect a memorial made out of wire and old cat food tins for his beloved Elgar. Imagine the outcome if the US Park Police caught him.
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We bury all our pets back there, but in unmarked graves. When we were gardening after we first moved in, we found a marker for “Alex”. Then I inadvertently dug up his vertebrae.
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I just want to read this again and again. What a well-handled description of place! The presence of the ceramic animals in an otherwise unspoiled woods, the memory of the park police at the door—such great details. I like the way you tie this place to generations in your family. There’s so much to appreciate in this memoir.
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Thanks Georgia. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that your last post didn’t encourage me to try harder. I think your students are lucky to have you as an instructor.
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Thanks, Jeff. I’ll tell them you said that.
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Beautiful recollections of the creative space you nurtured with your children. One of your best essays, Jeff.
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Thank you Mark!
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A wonderful recollection of earlier memories, Jeff. I really enjoyed this memoir, and the carefully-detailed descriptions are just fantastic. It’s really well-written. I feel as if I have almost been on a journey with you into this area. It’s wonderful that you will have gifted Sophie with memories of her early years exploring the woods with you, and I imagine Eli, too.
My children had memory boxes from a young age. When I had to clear the spare rooms out last year so that Tom and the children could move in, it meant that everything was sorted through, but Tom isn’t really interested, although Clare wants to go through her stuff, which I am pleased about. It’ll be just as much of a trip down memory lane for me as for her.
I know you said to one of your commenters that the area was under construction when we were getting ready to leave that house; have you ever been tempted to go back and see what it’s like now? I wonder about my Mum’s old house, but I think I prefer to remember it as it was when she was here. I wonder if that’s how you feel about your earlier home?
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I guess one day we’ll see if my kids’ memory boxes are meaningful to them. Some of the stuff in mine is ridiculous. I have two Laurel and Hardy silent films I got one christmas to play on my dad’s old film projector. Not sure why I am keeping them, but since I’ve had them for 50 years, it seems wrong to throw them away. Next time I’m in my childhood area, I plan on driving through the area that used to be ‘my’ woods. I’m sure I’ve done it before, but I can’t envision it at all. Not sure if/when I’ll ever be around there in the future.
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I don’t know why I failed to comment on this post after I read it. I do know that enjoyed reading it and was inspired to write a blog post about summer when I was much younger… forgive my absent mindedness.
Memories are tricky things… I can remember things I did when I was younger, events that unfolded with my children, music lyrics ( even though I mess them up when I sing), and movies. Emotions attached to a specific memory will last a lifetime with me. Creating memories is a funny business… because it happens without effort or actual exertion. I suspect that’s why I remember more moments with my grandmother than I do with my mom. Nothing bad… just potent??
Anyway… I said all of that to say this…. awesome writing, you inspired me with your story to take a trip down memory lane. I think the treasures you accumulate over time whether they be in memory boxes, photo albums, or even time capsules do a good job of recording personal history. That’s the kind of stuff I like to *find for inspiration. (Garage sales, antiquing, resale shops)
I enjoyed your jaunt through time… My I’m wordy! Okay bye. Lol
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