My childhood as a farm kid revolved around the seasons, requiring something of each of us. While we were taught to follow society’s graces on a typical day, there was the freedom of summer that set us on our own path of wild abandon.
Once the morning chores were complete, I remember following the lead of my big sisters, shucking our shoes and socks to run through dew-damp grass on our way to whatever struck our fancy.
The enormous hard maple that sheltered us with glorious shade stood tall in the center of our lawn. As if it were planned this way, one limb stretched out just right for a perfectly placed swing. I learned to love the feeling of taking flight with a grand push from one of my big sisters.
It was frustration in waiting for another big push that helped me learn how to pump with my skinny little legs to keep that swing in motion. If a girl worked hard enough, it was a thrill for bare feet to reach out and touch another limb at the apex of the swing’s boundary, timing it just so to push off of it, giving those pumping legs a break and edging ever higher.
It has been 60 years since I first did exactly that, and yet I can still recall the thrill of it with incredible clarity. There was a sensation in the belly, similar to riding a roller coaster which I didn’t experience until I was an adult, and I loved the thrill of it all.
We had the wide open spaces of farmland blessed with creeks, wildlife, newly-plowed fields for arrowhead hunting and a farm pond for swimming and perfecting somersaults and swan dives.
The woods behind our home was our favorite place to play on days not quite right for swimming. I remember wearing a holster with a shiny cap gun, ready to fight off the bad guys.
Just thinking of those adventures brings back the thrill of repeatedly pulling the trigger, real smoke creating a scent like no other.
I learned how to scale a tree by watching the sister who excelled in tree climbing.
Grab the lowest branch, even if it meant jumping dozens of times to accomplish that connection. Hold on tight and let those bare feet climb right up to it, then reach for the next limb.
In no time, I found myself up way too high for my liking. I learned that lowering oneself from a mighty oak was far less fun, my whole body tingling with fear of falling.
That same feeling of trepidation came from trying to climb out of a very full hay mow after throwing down bales for the cattle, reaching the ladder and holding on tight to the top rung while swinging out and hoping small feet reached the second rung safely. The belly could do a flip-flop and toes were set to tingling.
Reaching the barn floor safely felt like pure wonder, while the realization hit that tomorrow would bring the same scary challenge.
Oh, the things we never forget!
