The Woods - Part Three.

As I've said, we practically lived in those woods in the summers, and the winter wasn't much different. My mom can tell you stories. She remembers us going out in the snow early in the morning and staying out for hours till we'd come home just to change out of our wet jeans and eat, and then we'd head out again. We'd slide down the big hill up the street on our sleds and jump the curb into the space between two houses, the winner being the one who went the fastest and farthest into the back yard. That was one time my size was a boon. We'd try to walk and slide on the thin ice that would cover that creek and inevitably bust through and be knee deep in water. We'd laugh our asses off and just play on, seemingly immune to any illness that parents try to guard their kids against.

I'll never forget my first ice storm in our first winter there. I'd never seen anything like that in England, where I was introduced to my first really cold winter and deep snow that would bring almost every human endeavor to a screeching halt. I'd never seen anything more beautiful than the ice covering the limbs of those trees, like they were dipped in glass. With the sun shining through them it would make the whole woods sparkle. Breaking off a small limb would result in a sharp crack that would reverberate through the tree as the limbs hit one another. We'd wander along, our eyes gazing up in wonder as we trudged through those woods on our familiar trails. It was a wonderland.

In the summer the woods would come back to life, with endless noises being made by endless insects and occasional wildlife. The woods and fields we played in would fill out with thick, tall brush that became our hiding place, where we were mostly hidden from the eyes of the outside world. we'd hide at the side of a trail like an Indian war party and ambush the other kids who'd be riding by on their bikes. there was some sort of weed that grew all over in the summer. When you pulled the dried dead stalks up the root would make a perfect spear point. After breaking off the limbs we'd be left with a dozen disposable spears a piece, which we'd toss in the air to rain down on our victims as they went past.

Dad went on a trip to Asia in about '72 and brought me back a load of cool stuff, including three Bolo swords from the Philippines (that one in the link is very similar to one of the three I had). My friends and I were in bliss. I'd take one, the one with the squiggly, snake like Kris blade and hand the other two to a few fiends, and with them we'd cut our way through the summers brush as if we were explorers hacking our way through "Darkest Africa".

I'd also told dad (he was also going to Japan) to bring me back one of those cool Samurai helmets. What the hell did I know? I took a shot. I got word eventually that he'd picked up two and was headed home. I was ecstatic and had visions of runnin' through the woods wearing the friggin' thing, one of my buddies wearing the other, the two of us fighting battles and being the coolest kids in the world.

It turned out he'd picked up two little replicas that were about six or eight inches tall and sat on little pillows. Damn, was I depressed for a while. But kids shake that sort of stuff off quick. Before you knew it those helmets were up on a shelf, lookin' cool as hell, and I was back in the woods pretending to be Julius Caesar with a cardboard helmet I'd made myself out of a shoe box.

My buddies and I would have sword fights with those things and use them like machetes, cutting our way through the tall weeds, some of them with stalks as thick around as small trees. I tell ya, it was cool as hell to slice through those stalks with one swipe of the blade. But the swords weren't my weapons of choice. As cool as they were, they were secondary to my trusty fiberglass bow and the Fred Bear hunting arrows that were my pride and joy. Those woods and back yards are where I learned to shoot a bow and arrow, and how to make a spear. My friends and I were deadly. Thinking back on it now, it's a wonder how our parents stood by and let us enjoy ourselves like that. I'll be eternally grateful to them for giving me the freedom I was able to enjoy.

I guess you could say we'd seen too many movies. You know those scenes where the Brits, or whoever, would have their archers stand in a bunch and let fly into the enemy ranks? well we'd all stand, maybe 6 or 8 of us, at one end of the clearing that ran along the creek through everyone's back yard (there were no fences) and let fly down the way. the sight of all those arrows flying high would give me a chill, and then we'd run, laughing all the way, down to where they'd landed and shoot them back down the other way again.

There was one big hulk of a tree on the other side of the creek, down the trail from the house into the woods that we gave a lot of attention to. At some point I dubbed it "The Elephant Tree", probably from a picture in a book I had showing a Mammoth that had been filled with spears by primitive hunters. Mushy recently posted a shot of an old partially dead tree on FlickR that looks somewhat like the one in question.

The tree I'm taking about was bigger than this one, larger around the trunk, but maybe that's just the distorted picture I have in my head now from when I was a lot smaller. Anyway, the half of the tree that was exposed with rotted red bark conveniently faced the opposite side of the creek where the rail meandered past. It became a favorite target for our arrows. we'd walk along the trail that led down the creek and stop, as if surprised, and launch a flight of arrows into it. The arrows would make a deep thudding noise as they hit, which was the thing we really loved. In our minds we were great hunters, bringing down a Mammoth, a Grizzly Bear or a Buffalo.

As you can imagine, that creek was an endless source of adventure and excitement. I'll never forget wading barefooted down it's length once or twice, using an arrow with a field point to gig crawdads. Those poor bastards had no chance, unless they managed to flit their tails and do their back stroke fast enough. Some did, but others died a grisly death, only to be pulled out of the water, admired momentarily for their prehistoric coolness and then tossed away. I'd caught crawdads on my Grandparent's farm in Texas before, using bacon on a string, but this was MUCH more fun.

The guy I went giggin' with that day was one of the four sons of a family that lived just up the way from us, across the street. That family and their house was an endless source of drama and excitement for us kids. I can't remember that guys name, or his family's name, but it was his older brothers who had supposedly perpetrated that rape I mentioned in an earlier post. They were always pullin' somethin', sniffin' glue out in the woods and tryin' to scare the hell out of us younger kids. The best thing about them was their dog. We'll talk.

Anyway, I seem to remember spending most of my time trying to pretend to be either an Indian or a Greek or Roman soldier. These were the fixations I picked up in my time in England, watching cool shows about the ancient world on British public TV. One day, while cleaning out the garden that had been left under the stairs that led up to our sun deck, dad inadvertently contributed something wonderful to my warrior fantasy.

It seems the previous owners of the house had used an old round metal sled as an improvised pond. Dad dug it up out of the garden and laid it aside, thinking he was gonna throw it away. I took one look at it and in a second saw something I could make into a Hoplon. the folks had gotten me a book a long time earlier about famous battles in history, and one of the battles covered in there was the Battle of Thermopylae. there was a great picture in there of the Spartan shield wall, with the soldiers standing in a line, shields locked together, spears poking over towards the enemy. I used to lay in bed at night an stare at that picture, imagining myself in that line.

Now, along with a huge, long pole I'd found in the woods, that old sled, now remade with handles to fit my hand and arm, became central to my fantasy warrior life. I'd march around the neighborhood, having mock combat with friends, seeing myself in my minds eye at the center of that impenetrable shield wall. If you've seen the movie "300", then you know what I'm talking about. I tell ya, my imagination saw no bounds, and the adults on our street got used to seeing me marching around like the Spartans I'd seen in books or on TV. By the time we moved away from there I'd attracted a following of younger kids who loved to play along in my war games.

I actually organized a battle once, in the last summer we lived there. More about that later, and the weird family up the street, and their cool dog. The next post will probably be the last in this series. We'll see. I hope you're enjoyin' it all. I know thinkin' back on it all and retellin' it has been a huge blast for me. Anyway, you guys take care. Cheers.