a few acres

My favorite childhood playground was located in the southwest corner of my parent’s fifty-nine acre farm. This corner of the farm was left natural and untilled as my father had no joined in the practice of neighboring farmers who had cleared and tilled every available inch of land except where farm buildings stood. A meandering stream bisected the farm at this point. It was a magical place for a child to play.

In the spring, the stream became a raging river and later on the banks of the stream were a mass of yellow buttercups and stinky skunk cabbage. There were some trees in this triangle-shaped piece of farm, enough that we always referred to this area as “the woods”. At the northerly end of the woods was a dump of the unwanted, unburnable refuse of the household and farm, mostly consisting of bottles and cans, but occasionally interesting stuff that could be used for the props of an active imagination.

I remember in particular an old car which was great fun. It was a really old car because as I recall it had little curtains that went up and down. We took many trips in that car until that summer that some nasty hornets decided to build a nest in the seat cushions. That was the end of our imaginary trips.

The glass bottles in the dump were a source of enjoyment for target practice with a BB gun. I think Donny used to let me try to shoot some, but my aim was never too good.

As the summer went on the stream would diminish to a trickle and finally along about August there would be no water left at all. Then we would go back to school in September and not have any time to play in the woods anyway. The fall rains would come and finally during Christmas vacation we would get back down to the woods and check things out. Usually by that time the stream would have magically filled again and there would be enough ice for skating. One winter we could skate for miles on that stream by following it to the neighboring farm on the south. There was a boundary fence and just on the other side was a wonderful hill for sledding.

To the east of the woods, across an area of cultivated land, were two deep ravines side by side that we always called the gravel pits. I believe that my dad must have used the gravel to put down in the barn as needed because there was evidence of some evacuation in the sides of the pits. In the spring the deeper of the two pits was transformed into a lake by the melting of the winter snow and added to by spring rains.

Donny always had some good ideas and the skills to carry those ideas to a conclusion. He built a good-sized raft of some logs and planks. We had a great time poling around on this until I had the misfortune to fall off. I don’t think he was the direct cause of this, but at the time, I sure thought so. It was April and the air still had quite a chill. It was a long walk home in my wet clothes, accompanied by evil thoughts of Donny all the way.

The other gravel pit was slightly larger in area, but not as deep. The summer brought an abundant growth of some willow-like shrubs that completely filled the base of the pit. The shrub which grew to a height of at least six feet, had a pungent, not unpleasant odor. I have in later years smelled that fragrance when we were on some of our day hikes while camping and had memories of our adventure in the gravel pit.

My cousins from Chicago came every summer for a week or two. Much of our time with them was spent in the gravel pits and the woods. Donny and Ken, Rosemary and myself, with Billy tagging along behind, spent a good part of the summer visit in what became know as the KenDon jungle. The boys used hatchets and knives to carve paths through the shrubs until in their enthusiasm the paths became so large that the jungle had almost entirely disappeared. We drew maps to be able to locate the treasure that was buried in a wooden box (hand-made by my talented brother and budding carpenter). We dug steps in the side of the gravel pit and buried the box at the top. Years later, I went back to see if I could find the box, long since rotted away, and the gold coins, which of course were gold-colored pebbles.

Some of our other adventures with Chicago cousins got us in trouble with my dad. One year we thought it would be a good idea to dig a cave in the side of the gravel pit. The cave was quite dark, so we decided to make holes in the ceiling for more light. Along about that time, my dad checked on us to see what was going on. Not only were we in danger of dying in a cave-in, he also was concerned about the cows falling in the hole. At that point, our mining careers ended.

Perhaps it was the same summer that the idea of a picnic in the woods sounded appealing. We borrowed the tractor and wagon, packed some sandwiches and marshmallows, and headed for the woods. After finding a nice picnic spot and eating our sandwiches, we realized that it was going to be difficult to find enough dead wood for a campfire to roast the marshmallows. Cousin Ken had a brainstorm and we started making piles of the dried hay from the edges of the field. No one had thought of bringing sticks to roast the marshmallows and Ken (an Eagle Scout, don’t you know) thought the rusty nails we found on the wagon bed would do just fine. My dad saw the smoke from our hay fire and came down to put out the fire and spoil our fun.