Country Road

The rectangular red brick home centered itself on the gently sloping acre lot. Among the untrimmed hedges an old rusted wagon wheel steadily rested itself against the brick. The view from the peek a boo dirt road showed Evergreens sprinkled throughout the front yard and a lone Scarlet Maple stretching to cover the potted driveway. The backyard revealed itself to a densely wooded area parted by a thin trickling creek. To us it was known simply as the forest.

There were many days spent hidden in the forest. It provided us with a protective layer from the world. It was our imaginary world to create characters we dreamed of being. A strong solider, a fairy princess, a teacher, or a great animal tamer. Three seasons a year were spent in this forest. In fall we would collect brightly colored leaves and save them in ironed wax paper. In winter we would sled down the small hill beside the river and slide across its frozen shell. We spent hours building igloos only to crumble in minutes amid a snowball fight. In spring we would cup our hands to sip from the crisp, clear creek's water. But in the summer, the forest was noticeable quite. The stream had fewer visitors, the trees lacked their climbers. This was a season we missed in the forest. This was our father's season.