Trees

Behind our house, behind the barn was a pasture which decended steeply into a canyon. That canyon was my playground as a child. When I think about the places that define me, that canyon is always on my short list.


At the bottom of the pasture sat a pond--not useful to a child as it was neither clean enough nor deep enough to swim in. The pond was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence that this six-year-old girl was, of course, forbidden to cross.


The real treasure lay just below the pond in a stand of aspens sprinkled along the hillside. A path worn by cattle meandered through the trees, and I would linger there in summer just to listen to the trees as the wind softly shook the canopy. On one of the trees, a bold SIR was carved with purpose and dignity. On another, TSR, and another, JLR. Lower down the path, ARN, my friend from childhood. I would labor over my carvings, trying to make them perfect, give them style.


I visited the aspen stand again last year, 30 years after the carving and more than 20 since my brother died. I was looking for the initials. It was important, really important, that I find them. I'm not sure why. Validation? Proof that those times were more than just a memory? A permanent mark on the world?


I took my kids (big mistake), and after a series of crises (broken flip flop, knee-high thistles, barbed-wire fences), we made it to the aspens. The cow trails were gone. Amid much whining and distress, I combed the hillside for some sign of my past. Nothing. No wait...finally a sign, as magestic as the day he had carved it: S - I - R, 1974--my dad. I finally gave up on my search for the others. The kids were done, and frankly, the magic was lost in their shrill discomfort.


I'm planning another trip. I need to see those carvings, if for no other reason than to remind myself that I existed in that point in time. And it was good.