The Hill

If you laid down in the field behind my parents' house on a summer day you would hear birds chirping, a far off lawn mower and the distant whine of a dirt bike engine. You would hear the buzz of an insect and eventually the roar of an airplane coming in for a landing. Roaring so low you would wave to the pilot and almost see the sunlight glint off of his sunglasses.

If you laid there in the field, you would be surrounded by the golden hay, sweet smell of hot soil and straw. A golden cradle, holding your arms and legs just above the ground. The puffed up clouds would slide slowly across the sky. The sound of bicycles whizzing by, heading to The Hill and the forts and the golf course. Through a broken chain-link fence, where the pine trees grow in perfect lines. Too perfect for Mother Nature to have planted.

If you crossed that field behind my parents' house you knew about the Grandfather Tree. You remember standing inside its trunk, arms wound tightly around you, scared to death that the dark and the damp harbored an eight-legged danger. There at its base, you stood with your head tipped back, looking straight up at its twisted limbs and gnarled branching stretching forever outward. Reaching for whoever would come to stand in awe at its beauty, its ageless and black form.

If you stood in that field and looked over at the house, (was it blue then? gray or white?), that held seven friends and then there were six. And you listened for their voices or a reason to visit. Two doors over, three of my nearest and dearest, one was sure to come my way.

One family. We were really one family. Dinners and sleepovers. Borrowed green tents from the green house with almost no green lawn. A puddle the size of a pond at the end of that driveway... a perfect runway for any respectable dirt bike.

If you knelt in that field behind my parents' house, you buried your beloved four-legged friends where the straw stopped and the trees started. Little crosses made out of sticks, long dead flowers and chalk-written eulogies. You held your friend's hand and cried at the pain, the loss and any other thing that begged for tears.

If you sat in that field, you knew the sheer bliss of hurtling down The Hill’s main trail on a plastic, saucer sled. Spinning and screaming all the way down. Only to have to trudge all the way back up again. Ice and snow finding its way inside a carefully covered mitten’s opening, inside a tucked pants bottom. Snowmobile boots couldn't protect you from The Hill's frozen promise of runny noses and red cheeks.

If you close your eyes, we're all still there. Looking up at the sun, lying in a field behind my parents' house.

Comments

  1. I love the dream you recorded in your sidebar. I am a dreamer myself. Argh! I love it and it is tough too. Your recount of your dream is insightful. I think I would have interpreted it the same way.

    As for your parent’s house—wow—I am at a place in my life where I am remembering so many of those fun times. I love that you reference the dirt bike pathways that needed to be ridden. I used to adore dirt bikes. I swore that after my children grew that I would get myself a motorbike. However, they’re grown now and well, I guess I don’t want one anymore. (I guess we change.)

    And the tree forts! LOL! We spent our days and nights sleeping in forts that were rebuilt every year with the salvaged lumber we took from last-year’s forts. And when we really wanted a good night, we just slept out in the field under the stars.

    I am glad to have found another blogspotter. I like blogging, although I’ve been out of commission for a while for several reasons but I won’t bore you with that.

    As to your story titled, “The Hill” -- It is nice to read recounts and memories of a Granby childhood. Sweet. I relate to nearly everything you wrote. You’re a good writer and I hear you’re working on some books…so sweet.

    I can remember climbing into some tree trunks I met along the path up from the Bachelor Street side to Norwottuk Mountain. I used to try to paint the panoramic view and quickly discovered it was impossible.

    In those days, there was a steel tower at the top. Geez do I have so many stories about what my best friend and I encountered on our regular hikes up there.

    Anyway, this post is getting long but I felt compelled to comment on your blog. Nice to meet you, JLC.

    Cynthia

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  2. Jenn,
    You have an amazing way of making a person feel like they are Re-living the moment when you write. Thanks for sharing the wonderful memories on "The Hill". If those hills could talk. Love, from one of the seven.
    Lisa

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  3. Loved your story! You paint a supurb word picture for all to enjoy. I can remember laying in staw houses we made in the field. We'd flatten a body's width of straw and then tie in bunches the standing straw on both sides together making an archway over the part we would lay on.
    I loved reading books up in a tree where no one would bother me (but I found out later that my special "grandpa" kept an eye on me to make sure I was safe!
    I remember going to John's for penny candy and all the other things you described as well.
    A pity my children didn't know a Granby like that! Fear came to live here too! It's soo sad.

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