When you are a child, everything looks big. Have you ever noticed that those same things look much smaller only a few years later? That’s how I feel about my grandparents’ old house. When I was growing up, that house was huge. The house held many magical secrets and imaginative play-places, especially for a five-year-old and her six-year-old cousin Lucy. The main feature I remember about that house is the outside: the yard, the garden, and the driveway. These places all bring back memories of laughter and wonderment. Maybe that’s because the number one rule growing up was “Go outside.”
The yard as a whole was, in and of itself, extremely large. The main activity of the front yard was collecting numerous insects. We found all kinds of creatures—praying mantises, roly-polies, butterflies, and lightning bugs. Great care and concern for these animals was our number one priority. Well, it was a priority for most of the animals. That worm we dissected never had a chance anyway. Our menagerie of insects and bugs was carefully housed in old baby food jars that had holes poked in the lids. We even rescued a couple of birds from certain peril, nursed them back to health, and released them as soon as they were healed. Our regard for those birds was so high that Lucy and I made several phone calls to some sort of animal hotline in the interest of a speedy recovery for our feathered friend. Unfortunately, no one had explained to us the wonders of long distance calls and the phone bill. Upon the bill’s arrival, the bird’s health paled in comparison to our own hurting rear ends.
The yard also had its share of creepy animals. You got it—I’m talking about snakes. Snakes were not an uncommon find on our land. My first experiences with snakes were the times when my grandfather led me out to the yard to show me one that he had run over with the lawn mower. I gazed down at the recently deceased snake. It was green and black. It was big. I was instructed that animals such as this were not friends and were not to be approached. Our other big snake excitement was the time the little chickens in the next door neighbor’s coop had a surprise visitor. The coop was raised high off the ground. The bottom of the cage was my eye level. I peeked in to see the snake, all sleepy and fat…minus the cute yellow furry little chickens. I hope that snake was shot.
The garden next to my grandparent’s house was ideal for several things other than growing your usual yucky vegetables. It was the prime site for our forts that were constructed entirely out of pine straw. It was serious business, building this fort. That’s all we ever did with it, though…just build. There weren’t any other neighborhood kids to keep out of the fort, so in retrospect our fort-building was probably a little pointless. However, we still took great pride in our floor layout and design. The garden also was a great place to fly the good old Ewok kite. It seemed like we ran for miles, flying the kite so high that it seemed to disappear into the clouds. When it was growing season, we were forced to find other places to play. Papa grew corn, beans, and other vegetables, plums, figs, blueberries, blackberries, peaches, muskadines, and scuppernongs. There’s nothing like the sweet taste of a bright orange plum picked straight from the tree, and the juice that would run down your chin and hands making you all sticky.
The main driveway for this house was an immense hill—the biggest, steepest hill you’ve ever seen. This hill would prove itself thrilling when we pedaled our bikes down it. There was this one time, though, that I was riding on the back of my cousin’s banana seat bicycle, and our little leisurely ride turned into a lesson on modern flight. Perhaps beforehand I should have been told about the evils of putting my feet in the spokes. As it turned out, no one thought to mention this detail to me, and so about halfway down, Lucy and I were airborne. We flew through the air, the wind blowing our hair, graceful and free, that is, until we met the concrete with a giant thud. That episode pretty much killed any desire I had to go tearing down that hill on my cousin’s bike…or any bike, for that matter.
The backyard fit with the rest of the land perfectly. It was spacious. The clothesline stood tall in the middle of the yard. The freshly washed white sheets rippled gently in the wind. They smelled like sunshine. The fig tree was over to the left, by the gate. Over on the far right of the yard was the scuppernong arbor. The best thing about this yard was, without question, the annual hiding of the Easter eggs. This was one tough yard. You’d be surprised. Of course, there were the token eggs in the fence, under the deck, and in the curled up hose by the spigot. Those were just the easy ones. This event was a war waged between the grown-ups and the kids. You had to love it. The grown-ups were meticulous in the placement of said eggs. Before every hunt ended, there was always an egg count to make sure we had indeed gotten them all. I’m sure there are still some of those eggs out there somewhere, still hidden…just waiting.
Thus a large portion of my childhood was spent roaming in the great outdoors. My cousin and I always managed to find ourselves in some sort of daring adventure or secret mission. Sure, some of these things may not be exactly the truth, rather a product of my overactive childhood imagination, but that’s how I like to remember things. Finding bugs, flying kites, building forts—these are the times I remember most. After all, that’s what childhood’s all about…adventures.
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