Thursday, January 8, 2009
When I was a kid, there were a couple of special places that I would go to that were my "secret" hideouts. One was in the woods, under some brambles and vines. I used my knife to make a kind of den there and would sit inside enveloped by honeysuckle, muscadine vines, and probably poison ivy. There were also rows of ancient daffodils in the forest because the area used to have many daffodil farms, with some of the hardy remnants still coming up in rows.
I'd pretend that I was an adventurer such as Lewis and Clarke on an expedition to explore the wilderness. Sometimes, I would sneak cigarettes out there and pretend that I was grown up by blowing smoke rings.
Another place that I would go was to a rise that overlooked a large hay field. There were some rolling hills and the hay would wave in the wind. It looked glorious when it was green and also when the hay turned golden. This place was one that took my fancy a bit later than the forest hideout. It was a place where I contemplated the mysteries of being a teenager. I could dream my teenage dreams there without being disturbed. And I could pour out tears of frustration and anger that seemed to be part of my existence at that time.
Like a lot of things, the special places that I went to changed with the times. The forest hideout became a four lane highway. And the hay field became a field of patio homes. Yet, I can still take refuge in my mind's eye by seeing those places the way that they used to be when I was a kid.