Sunny Side Up August 14, 2002 �2002, Kathleen Gibson A little child will lead you I happened on a child�s summer place of secrets today. At the end of the alley where I walked, a small grove of trees grows almost in a circle. The trees aren�t large really, but their limbs touch overhead and form a leafy umbrella. The lower branches are just high enough for a child to enter, and the foliage thick enough to protect the little refuge from the sight of passing motorists. I ducked low and tiptoed into another world. A cathedral of sorts. The sun filtered softly through the living green, and all was quiet. Not dead quiet�country quiet. Breeze-rippled leaves muffled the sounds of the nearby street. Birds twittered. Almost palpable was the presence of absent children. It had to be them who�d arranged the broken twigs so carefully into teepee formations; who�d left the blue bucket, half full of sandy soil, lying beside the miniature dirt paths; who�d strung kitchen string from tree to tree, clearly marking no entry except at the front door where I�d slipped in. Careful to disturb nothing, I backed out, remembering well the sacredness of such spots. Though the Port Moody house I grew up in is long gone, the secret places of my own childhood remain eerily unchanged. The firs and cedars still stand sentinel along the shores of Burrard Inlet. Their snarled roots grope for footholds on the small incline that leads to the water�s edge. Some of those giants grow in clumps and circles too, like the smaller trees I saw today, and their branches swing low, heavy with cones. It was like that forty years ago too. My secret places were cool, even on summer�s hottest days. And dark. The sun was allowed dappling privileges only, poking its curious rays through the evergreen lace�stories up. They landed limpid and pale on my face, transferring no heat at all. The floors were springy layers of fragrant needles, and crumbling red slivers of rotting fir stumps. To the mews of ocean-going gulls, my sister and I played by the hour. We became important people there�the exiled remnants of royalty, princesses hiding from pirates, queens and empresses on vacation from the throne. We licked our lips and tasted salt, so strong was the scent of inlet air. We gorged ourselves on fat red huckleberries that grew in sprays from old stumps, and blackberries concealed well under tangled masses of thorny vines. We squealed with proper royal indignation at spider webs, and pretended the lichens draping the branches were the beards of nasty pirates, who we must have commissioned our knights to kill, though I don�t recall that part. I happened on a child�s secret place of summer today and remembered what it was like to imagine. Suddenly all my wishful thoughts, my impossible prayers, and secret dreams separated themselves from the frenzied pace of middle life and floated, glimmering, to the surface. And seemed possible. Thank you, child at alley�s end. Jesus said I must be like you. You can respond to this columna at [email protected] |
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