Tree Beard

When I was a child I had a secret place. It was literally only a ten minute walk from my house but as I ventured there, I felt important. Like a voyager heading into an exciting and undiscovered new world. Of course, voyages can be dangerous so I never went there without my best friend, Christina.

Although you could get there by road, the best way was to walk through the blueberry patch and over the hill. At seven years old, my knees were barely high enough to trample over the bristly bushes. They pulled and attached themselves to my thin pants just like a young toddler would cling to its mother in a crowd.  Insensitive to the efforts of Mother Nature, I flattened the bushes with my pink rubber boots. This was also insensitive to my own mother, who travelled there once a day in the dead heat of summer to pluck the ripened fruit.

Blueberries squished and spilt at their sides, spewing delicate brown seeds and green goo. However, their brutal death felt like a small sacrifice in order for me to reach my scared spot. Over the hill I would run.  A light breeze would push back the blond wisps of hair that had broken free from my ponytail. The pulsation of the sun’s heat felt like my mother’s hand pressing firmly on my head. She did that a lot when trying to keep me close by while talking to neighbors on the street. 

The sweat beads collected on my face and magnified the freckles I had hated so much as a child. At the top of the hill I would wait for Christina. Once reunited, we would take a running leap and hope to be the one that jumped the farthest over the chocolate river (also referred to as a dirt road by my parents). The putrid smell of the pig farm bullied its way into my nostrils and made me squeal in repugnance.  A screech pierced my ears once again but this time it came from Christina’s delight. We had finally reached our oasis.

The tree lot was glorious. The scent of sticky pine tickled as I inhaled and enticed me to enter . Greens of every hue cascaded as if Monet himself had painted this perfect mosaic landscape. My eyes scanned the sanctuary, my pink boots teetering over the tree line like I was on a tight rope. Before I knew it my boots were off, pulling me into the swell of trees. They stood silently and as unique as people, composed of all different shapes and sizes. I would imagine that the small spruces were children of the taller, bushy pines. A game of hide and seek would ensue and I would hide under the tallest tree as if it were my father, protecting me from the danger of being found. 

Christina and I would play for hours at this tree lot. Then dusk would come to pick us up and take us home. After all, even the best of voyages must come to an end at some point.