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.
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