behindtheax

Another writing prompt

Spending a month in my hometown this summer brought up a lot of childhood memories and I guess that is why I am starting out my blog more in the past than in the present. The book I am currently reading is Soul Mountain by Gao Xingjian. It is a great read. He wrote something in the very first chapter that I really related too. It said, You've lived in the city for a long time and need to feel that you have a hometown. You want a hometown so that you'll be able to return to your childhood to recollect long lost memories.
The writing prompt today at onionboy.ca brought up one of those memories for me.

Moss laden quiet. As kids we spent a lot of time in the woods, sometimes whole days, walking as far as we could with nothing to sustain us but squished peanut butter and jam sandwiches and what ever was growing wild at the time. Raspberries along the old railroad tracks in July and blueberries beneath the well spaced pines of the pinewoods in August. For water we would drink from anywhere the water was running, a small stream, small brook. We thought if it was running it was clean. I am not sure that was actually the case and it may be the reason why I remember worm medicine being a substantial part of my diet as a kid. But after exploring field and wood in the heat of a summer’s day, it was always a part of our adventure to find running water, scooping it up in cupped hands, quenching our thrist, feeling like we could now survive forever in the wilderness. The paths we explored were mainly well traveled ones and we usually kept to them, sometimes taking short cuts by running through a farmer’s field instead of going around it, hoping he wouldn’t start firing salt at us. I doubt very much now that there ever were farmers standing, well hidden in the trees, waiting for kids to trespass so they could shoot salt through a rifle barrel at them but at the time we believed this whole heartedly.

Then came a day when a friend told us about an abandon cabin he heard of and that he knew how to get there. So, of course we went. The part of the woods he wanted to take us into was in the northeast corner of this huge field. The field itself was a journey and I remember the sound of heat bugs loud in our ears as we walked in a row, each holding a long strand of green hay in our mouth, chewing on the sweet end. When we got to the corner of the field we spent some time searching for an opening through an unyielding wall of bush and alder and long skirts of spruce branches. But there was none so we decided to just plow our way through, calling out words such as Frig and Oww and Judas as we went. Judas and Frig were our substitute swear words and we pretty much wore them out as kids. We swore because branches were scratching up our arms and legs, and getting caught in our hair pulling us up short and the friend in front was always letting the branch, they just pushed through, come back to hit the kid behind in the face. We almost got to a point where we were going to turn back but then the woods opened up for us and most of the bush disappeared leaving only straight spruce and cedar trees with black trunks and with branches that didn’t even appear to start until three quarters of the way up their slim trunks. We all stepped forward together and our sandal/flip flop covered feet sank up to our ankles in this incredible softness. The whole floor of this wood appeared to be a bright green carpet of spongy moss. We walked on slowly, enjoying the give of the ground and the rich feeling of being on the best and thickest shag carpet in New Brunswick. We walked on quietly; each of us now engulfed in our own thoughts, watching our feet being absorbed by the moss, none of us making a sound. I can’t really explain it but sometimes, even now, when I remember that glimpse of pink flip flop sinking into green moss, I feel a quick, fleeting feeling of well-being. We never did find that cabin but I do believe we all took that feeling of moss laden quiet with us when we left.

posted by mary j. @ 10:57 AM