THE WOODS BEHIND MY HOUSE Chapter 1 Post # 2

It was the woods, the woods behind my house, that were to shape a good part of my life. At least they shaped my love of nature and things natural. They were never the Dylan-esque ‘haunting frightening trees’ where lost children fell victim to flesh-eating witches. Those woods would come later. My woods were, in essence, a large over grown garden where the only boogie was poison ivy.
If I’d had my way I’d never leave the woods. Entire days were spent exploring its wonders until either hunger, my favorite TV show or winter cold to finally coached me home.
“Where have you been?” my mother asked in her courtly southern accent. “I’ve been calling you all afternoon.”
My standard answer, “I was in the woods.”
“Well don’t go so far the next time. You’ll get lost.”
While my mother’s wise advice went unheeded, I did enjoy sharing my discoveries with her. From fields, streams and ponds, I’d proudly bring my mother back captured trophies; frogs, turtles, bird eggs and once a live four foot brown rat snake I’d managed to snatch while it was sunning itself on a stone wall. Being a country girl she copped well with my prizes.
“That’s nice, Bobby, now take back it outside.”
Trouncing through the forests of backyard Braintree or the Orinoco River Basin, I never felt lost. Surrounded by trees and their ancillary animals, I was immersed in the comfort and protection of their cool dank darkness. The woods were my womb. There I could give birth to my imagination, feel alive and reborn. The woods, I learned, would never hurt me. Most of all, the woods were where I could go to be alone, free from the hubbub of humanity. I discovered very early on that I did not like people.

THE WOODS BEHIND MY HOUSE

In a place called Braintree, not far from Boston, in a county whose name I can’t remember, I grew up believing in gods. Don’t misunderstand, every Sunday I went to the nine o’clock Mass and Sunday school right after. I memorized the catechism and tried, with some success, to sit quietly enough to avoid the red-knuckling rulers the black robed nuns carried like cattle prodders. Part of my spiritual dichotomy may have arisen from my parents; one was Roman Catholic and the other Lutheran, a union considered a mixed marriage in those days. As a firm believer in the First Commandment, I held none of the other gods before God. Yet, at an early age I was aware that an impressive array of deities, spirits and imps followed close on my heals creating a barnyard of wonder and havoc in their wake.
For a young boy, growing up in the early 1950s, sub-urban Braintree was Paradise. Or so it seems through my airbrushed eyes a lengthy half century later. We were a solidly middle class family. Our home was a white, three bedroom expandable Cape Cod with black shutters, two dormers, a one car garage and an unfinished basement. There was even a white picket fence. We lived on Liberty Street, a farm-to-market road that meandered in a lazy north south direction across brooks and dales from Weymouth Landing to South Braintree. The two lane causally paved road had no markings and was lined by a hodgepodge of small ranch and Cape houses with neat yards that stretched to the woods behind them. Liberty Street was a safe place, a healthy place, a place returning World War II veterans and their brides could try and make up for lost time. It was a good place to grow up young.