Secrets of the Hedgerows

There was a small but picturesque farm that sat on top of a hill near our home.  I knew the young girl that lived there but her mom worked and her dad spend most of his time in the fields.  She was not allowed to leave her property after school and I was not allowed to go up to the farm unless one of her parents was there. Getting together to play was a challenge that demanded to be met and our solution was to push our boundaries to their limits.

The farthest corner of their farm fields ended at the road that led to my house.  I would meet her there after school, hiding my bike in the bushes and crawling through the fence into the hedgerow.  To our young minds she could tell her parents that she had not left the property and I could tell mine that I had not gone “up” to the farm.

It was our private playground and an absolute wonderland for our imaginations.  There was a creek running right down the middle and a paradise of long grasses, wild flowers and assorted wildlife including rabbits, squirrels and an occasional whitetail deer.  We were Pioneers, Cowboys and Indians, African explorers and anything else we could dream up.  We waded in the creek, caught minnows and sailed driftwood boats down the imagined rapids.  It was our secret place where we buried our treasures, built our forts and spied through the trees at imaginary enemies.

From a distance they look like narrow rows of living fence but up close they reveal natural habitats for wildlife and wild imaginations.  Even now when I am driving through the farmlands of the Midwest I wonder what secrets are hidden in the hedgerows.

(First Published on www.thebarndoor.net)

Up to Our Knees in Trouble

Our subdivision was actually a small peninsula with the Fox river on 3 sides.  One of the benefits was that it remained a small community without the threat of urban sprawl.  One of the drawbacks was that when the river flooded, it swallowed all of the low lying property, covering the road right up to our driveway.  We were lucky to live on higher ground so the floods became just another fascinating part of living by the river.

Fish of all sizes and shapes would swim in the shallow flood waters so it was like a giant interactive aquarium.  We begged our parents to let us wade in and try to catch the fish with our nets.  We were allowed to go into the water with strict instructions to stay on the road so we could tell how deep it was and always wear our rain boots.  We didn’t mind staying on the road because it was easier to see the fish where there was no mud or grass but we hated wearing our boots.  We wanted to go barefoot because we knew that we could go into the deeper areas where the larger fish seemed to be.

The giant aquarium eventually became too much of a temptation and we took our boots off to wade barefoot in water just behind the garage where we couldn’t be seen from the house.  We had a great time chasing fish and looking for floating treasures.  Afterwards we put our boots back on and went back to the house with plans to enjoy our covert activities again the next day.  Unfortunately, our parents had a very good reason for telling us to wear our boots.  Fish were not the only things that filled the flood waters. By the end of the night we were all horrified to find a large, itchy, red rash covering our legs right up to our knees from the bacteria in the water.  There was nothing worse than our painful self-inflicted punishment except maybe watching our parents try to stifle their laughter as they applied the first aid.

Hope in Deep Waters

We were indoctrinated at an early age.  We sat on blankets with our bamboo poles lying next to us, dangling the tips over the top of the seawall.  The line went straight down to the bobber so that the tiny tug of the child size sunfish or perch would bend the thin tip of the bamboo.  Eventually we were allowed to stand and use the entire pole to try for Striped Bass or Crappies.  We swung them onto the shore at the end of the long poles while learning to duck the flying catches of others.  Bait was everything from tiny pieces of old lace, minnows, worms and even leeches.  I personally drew the line at leeches even though it threatened my status as a proper fisherman.

 A rite of passage was to own our first rod and reel and learning to cast was as important as learning to swim.  It also allowed us to try for the larger deep water fish like Pike and Catfish.  Along the way we learned to read the river.  When the water was too high or the Carp were spawning in the shallows, the fishing would not be good.  When the May flies appeared or the water was very still the time was right.  The reward for all this was a Sunday afternoon fish fry and the satisfaction of knowing that we had provided the delicious, fresh ingredients.  It didn’t hurt that along the way we learned patience and perseverance, and how to be quiet for long periods of time.

As my life stands right now, I can’t even imagine having the time to sit on a riverbank, pole in hand, letting just the sun dictate my time.  I am also pretty sure that the patience and perseverance I remember having back then might fail me.   But I do know where I can go to find the same kind of peace and timeless contentment.  No matter if life is rushing by or its troubles are multiplying I can “Cast my burdens upon the Lord and he will sustain me…..” (Psalm 55:22 KJV)

Nuts and Bolts and Baby Food Jars

The old garage was the one place we were not allowed to play.  It was dark and dusty and it smelled of damp wood, oil and rust.  Mom said it was dangerous because of all the tools, junk, and rusty nails. The lure of the forbidden and mystery of the unknown were counteracted, at least for me, by the spiders and the wasps.  We had to go in to get our bikes and fishing poles but we made sure they were near the door so we could just grab them. The two small dust coated windows didn’t let much light in even on a sunny day.  There was one naked light bulb in the center that barely illuminated the floor beneath it, and that seemed to make the corners even darker.

When Daddy was fixing the lawn mower or building something out there we were told not to bother him. His territory, it was a much grittier version of today’s man cave. We were surprised one day when Mom told us all to go out to the garage and help our father.  I am not sure, but I think we had been complaining about not having anything to do, so as parents of bored kids will do, they found something to occupy us. Daddy managed makeshift seats for us all, near his work bench, and spilled two grease soaked cardboard boxes full of nuts and bolts on top of it.  It was our job to sort them by size and type into little glass baby food jars that he had been saving in another grease soaked cardboard box. 

It certainly wasn’t what we had in mind for an activity, but we knew better than to add another complaint to the day’s list. We were dirty and tired by the time we finished, but satisfied to see all of the little jars neatly lining the shelves above the workbench, sorted and ready to use.  What makes a lasting memory?  Stepping into the unknown and working together toward a common goal.  Hmm, and I thought they were just trying to keep us busy.

Silent Memories

I don’t know about anyone else, but during a concert or sporting event when they ask for a moment of silence for someone who has died, I have a hard time quieting my mind. Surrounded by all of the activity and with feelings of anticipation and excitement, it takes almost that long for me to try to focus my thoughts. Silence doesn’t seem to come easy these days.

  When I was growing up there was one day when no music, TV or games were allowed in our house from the time we got up until 3 o’clock in the afternoon.  It was Good Friday.  It was not normal for the four of us kids to be quiet so the day was long and frustrating.  When I got bored I would usually go outside which was my favorite place to be anyway.  Funny thing though, I remember so many Good Fridays when it rained all day.  Mom always said the angels were crying for Jesus. Not long after 3:00 someone would turn on the TV on but not as loud as usual and it seemed like it took a while for things to get back to normal.  

I asked her once why we could turn everything back on at 3:00 and she said that it was because that was the time when it was believed Jesus had died on the cross.  It didn’t make sense to me then that the saddest moment of the day would be the time when the music and games could start again. But I began to understand that when I read what Jesus said on the cross, “It is finished”.  The pain was over and death defeated now all there was to do was to wait for the Glory of Easter.

I wish that I could say that I carried on that tradition for my own children but I really only told them about it.  Now on Good Friday no matter where I am my mind always goes back to the memory of that quiet time and I think about Him because I know that through all His suffering on that day He was thinking about us.

The Imagination Tree

The Catalpa Speciosa, otherwise known as a Cigar tree, that stood in our front yard was not a very pretty tree.  It was tall and wide with crooked branches that grew more up than out.  The leaves were three times the size of oak or maple leaves and shaped like rounded arrowheads. We couldn’t climb it because the lowest branches were far above our heads so most of the time its only purpose seemed to be to hold up floodlights for the fisherman.  But twice a year all that changed and it became the best tree in the yard.

Because it stood so tall sometimes we didn’t even notice the white flowers until they began to fall to the grass from large clusters partially hidden by the leaves. If they fell without the help of wind or rain they would cover the whole front yard like a fluffy carpet.  Each one was shaped like a small cup just big enough to fit over the tip of your finger with a beautiful ruffle around the top.  We never grew tired of putting one on each finger like fanciful gloves or stringing them together like Hawaiian leis. They turned brown quickly once they fell and we could only enjoy them for a few days so they always seemed special.

Toward the end of summer if you looked up into the branches you could see long green seed pods hanging where the flower clusters had been.  Some were more than a foot long and as fat as our thumbs.  When they began to turn brown they started to fall and then the real fun began.  They became swords, firewood on a deserted island, cigars at the general store, arrows for the Indians and whatever else we could imagine.  We spent hours playing in the shade of that big tree until the colorful oak and maple leaves stole our attention and we found new adventure jumping into the large piles of raked leaves.  We moved from one season of play to another, from snowman to mud pies until one day in late spring a ruffled white flower dropped at our feet and we were drawn back to the imagination tree.

Cold Hard Cash

As a babysitter I loved New Year’s Eve.  It was good money and not just because of the long hours. My regular families liked to combine all the kids at one house so they didn’t have to compete for my services. At my regular rate of $1.50 an hour, I could earn a whopping $20.00.  

One year, three of my regular families combined their six kids to attend a large event in the city.  It started to snow and they wanted to leave early so they asked if I could come before dinner and feed the kids. They came home at 2:30 a.m. after driving home in what turned out to be a big snowstorm.  They pooled their money and the homeowner then reached into his wallet and handed me a $50.00 bill.  It was the most I had ever earned in one night.  As one of the parents was driving me home I reached for the money and realized that it was gone.  I started frantically searching all my pockets and the he asked what was wrong.  I told him I couldn’t find the $50.00 bill.  He reassured me that it had probably fallen out of my pocket when I put my coat on and he would find it when he went back.  When he dropped me off he replaced the money from his own wallet and said not to worry about it. 

A few weeks later I babysat at that home again and asked if they had ever found the money.  I felt terrible and asked her if she wanted me to pay it back but she said no.  As we were walking out the door she warned me not to slip because it was icy.  I looked down and there, under the ice just beside the porch was my hard earned and very cold cash, perfectly preserved. 

How Do You Steer This Thing

                The first time I was allowed to visit a friend’s farm my Dad made it clear that I was not to ride or even go near the horses without an adult present.
               The minute I got there we headed toward the barn as though we were on a mission. My friend told me her parents were busy so I had to tell her about my Dad's warning. After a brief discussion we found just enough justification to keep going.  She set a wooden crate down next to a large white horse and told me to get on.  She was up on the other horse within seconds telling me not to worry because my horse would follow hers and we would just walk. Did I mention we were riding bare back? It sounded like a good idea at the time but it was uncomfortable and I was unable to straddle the wide animal enough to stay centered.  We had to go around an old wagon that had grass on one side and a large mud puddle on the other.  My friend walked her horse right through the mud.  I don’t know if it was because my horse was white or if I was afraid it would get stuck like an old sedan but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It wasn’t much of an argument because as hard as I tugged, begged and leaned my horse just kept on following hers but, unfortunately, I didn’t. 

It was more of a slide than a fall and nothing was broken but I had done enough damage to warrant a trip to the doctor.  There was no contest between the pain in my shoulder and the pain of having to call my dad to pick me up.  They say mothers are psychic.  He never even asked what happened he knew the minute I called.  The obvious physical pain I was in did manage to soften his anger, but I could tell the sympathy ended way before the disappointment.   My friend moved away about a year later and in all that time I never had the nerve to ask my dad to let me visit the farm again.  Some dreams are best left to the imagination at least for the time being.

               

Stairway to Terror

Growing up in a rural area, one of the only summer jobs available was babysitting.  I sometimes watched kids on local farms which meant the nearest neighbor could be a mile away.  I wasn’t the nervous type and I didn’t even mind staying late.  All that changed one night as I was putting the kids to bed on a remote farm.

                It was only 8:00 but already bedtime for the 4 year old girl and 2 year old boy I was watching.  The little girl ran up the stairs before me to find a book for me to read as I carried the little boy in my arms.  As I reached the first landing, the boy, who was facing behind me and looking over my shoulder, suddenly said, “Who’s that?”  I could feel his arm reaching out pointing at something or someone.

                I froze in mid step and quickly weighed my options.  At 14 years old they consisted of: stand and die or scream and run. I blame horror movies for the fact that they did not include turn around and look.  My split second decision was scream and run but it is hard to scream when you are taking stairs 3 and four at a time with a 2 year old in your arms.  I reached the little girls bedroom slamming and locking the door behind us.  I asked the kids to be very quiet and pressed my ear against the door to try and hear if we had been followed up the stairs.  There were no cell phones in those days and no land line in the kid’s room.  We were trapped.

                Suddenly, I heard the sound of a car in the driveway and the voices of their parents.  I listened as they unlocked the door and walked across the kitchen toward the stairs.  Relief flooded over me as I realized that they had not encountered any evil on the way in.  They were laughing and calling my name.  I came out of the bedroom holding the two year old, who suddenly burst into tears and reached for his mother.  As she took him from my arms he cried, “Who’s that? Who’s that?” and pointed toward the next room.  She calmly walked into the living room and picked up a children’s book.  The book had a familiar title that I remembered my mom reading to me, Are You My Mother.   “It’s his favorite” she said, he won’t go to sleep until he hears it.  Every time I turn the page he asks “Who’s that?”

                 

Auntie Helen's Dresser Drawers

 The older couple that lived next door were like grandparents to us.  They were retired and their children were grown and out of the house.  Uncle Lou spent his days in his garden always keeping an eye on us as we played outside. He fixed our bikes and showed us how to tell a weed from a flower.  Auntie Helen stayed indoors most of the time so we didn’t see her as often.  When she did come outside I always held my breath waiting for her to ask us in for a visit.

  A visit meant sitting with her on the sun porch eating homemade cookies from an old metal tin and Kool-Aid out of paper cups.  It also meant being able to open our own special drawers in the large sideboard in the dining room that l called a dresser.  Inside our drawers we each had a special coloring book, a box of crayons, a paint book, watercolors and a set of paper dolls. No hand me downs or leftovers but chosen especially for us according to our age and favorite characters or themes. We used our best coloring skills and treated everything carefully putting it away neatly for the next visit when we were done.  She hung our artwork on her refrigerator just as she had done with her own children.

 At home, out of necessity, we learned to share; at times a room, most of our toys and even a bed. During Auntie Helen’s visit we were unique individuals. My parents treated us as individuals amongst the chaos of a large family, but it was those quiet times away from home that helped me be me. I know that my grandchildren may have to share the guest room and take turns on the computer but they will each have a drawer with their own brand new things so they always know they are special and unique.

The Swim

     As rights’ of passage go, it was unique. Even though we never called it that, my brother, sisters and I couldn’t have anticipated it more. We lived on the Fox River so swimming was a common pass time, but when Dad finally pointed and said “Let’s go” to one of us, then started to swim out across the Fox, we knew our time had come. 

      Without inner tube or life jacket we swam out past the longest piers where only the boats traveled and the bottom was unreachable.  It was a true test of our swimming stamina and as I soon discovered, our confidence, when I looked back and saw our shoreline from a new and distant perspective.

    

     The reward was not just the pride of reaching the other side but the treasure that would be found there.  Our home side of the river was deep and the bottom covered in rocks and sand.  The opposite shore was undeveloped and only reachable through thigh deep, leg sucking mud.  Finding our treasure there would be another test of courage and determination. 

     As half sinking, half walking; I searched alongside my father, I was thrilled when I finally felt something round and hard touch my foot.  I didn’t need instructions. I clamped it between both feet and virtually sitting in the mud pulled it up to meet my hands.  The perfect specimen, it was whole and heavy with life.  I hardly remember the swim back home, only the thrill of watching my Dad afterwards as he opened, cleaned and revealed the mother of pearl shell.  “That’s a nice one.” He said, and no words could have expressed his pride more.