Looking Back

It is an unusually warm day for February. I am outside, on my back porch, pulling the dead plants out of pots and generally tidying up. I look out to the yard, where our dog Buddy is standing. Buddy is a 13 year old black lab mix who is definitely showing his age lately.

As he stands in the yard, his front legs lean forward, and his nose is pointed up as if a scent has caught his attention. He looks out to the lower part of the yard and the woods and I can’t help but wonder what he is thinking. Does he have memories of being a younger dog ? Running in the woods and splashing in the creek with his sidekick Pumpkin? Does he recall their romps with the dog next door ? Running out from their crates to the dog run to bark back at the coyotes ?

As he stands there shifted slightly forward, it makes me think of a movie scene. The kind that opens with an old man walking down the street in a neighborhood gone bad. The sounds of sirens and shouting fill the air, gangsters lean against graffiti covered walls. As the camera pans the scene, the black and white screen transforms into color, and we are taken back in time, when the streets were tidy and everyone wore hats.

I wonder if Buddy is having his own movie style flashback, to a time when he could almost catch a squirrel. Then I hear it. From down in the creek, coming our way. It is the sounds of children’s voices. Oh! How I have missed hearing kids in the creek! Our neighborhood had a lot of kids when ours were growing up, but just as our children moved on, so did theirs, and there were far fewer kids. Now we are seeing more young families moving in, and we are delighted to see the bikes, skateboards and golf carts cruising our streets. Their voices ring out “Hey wait up !” “Why don’t you All Hurry up ?” “Ya’ll seriously left us back there at the turn!” I walk down into the woods and climb into the treehouse, standing a bit back from the window so they don’t see me. There are 7 of them, I think. All boys, with names like Ryan, Evan and Cole. Each of them wearing hoodies or sweatshirts in black, red and white, school colors in our little town.

They climb the bank of the creek, jabbering back and forth, calling each other pussies as often as the chance allows. Once they got to the top, they crawled over a fence to get into the pasture above. Firmly on flat ground, they all began to run, picking up sticks along the way to hurl at each other or start a sword fight. One would chase the other, wielding long branches and making every attempt to poke someone’s eyes out. Based on what I could hear, it seems Evan and Ryan are the biggest pussies of all time.

Once they were out of sight, I returned to my work on the porch, and heard them coming back about 30 minutes later. They retraced their steps, descending into the creek bed, and then emerged in the neighbors yard next door. As the group made it’s way across the yard, the last boy in the pack jumped onto the neighbors trampoline and spent a minute or so practicing flips. Oblivious to home security cameras or anyone watching, I was in awe of that adolescent ability to simply BE. To be in the moment, not worrying about six other things or constantly making lists in your head.

I look back on my childhood when I spent hours and days immersed in make believe and unaware of all that went on round me. Looking at the row of boots on the back porch, I think back to why we moved here. It was an intended and carefully thought out strategy to allow our children to experience what we did growing up. The freedom to ride your bike in the streets without worry. Access to the woods, creek, pastures and fields in which to wander and explore. Exposure to nature in all it’s glory. The last time my two grown children were home together, I looked out the kitchen window to see them walking down to the fort in the woods. Looking back, I think we did okay.