The Hillside

I dreamed of the hillside where we used to go sledding. It was steep and covered with fresh snow, and we hauled our fliers up one side, lay down on our bellies and screaming with terror and joy, went like the wind to the bottom of the hill. The high school kids built snow forts at the bottom by the frozen pond and had ferocious snowball fights, often catching the innocent younger children in the crossfire. Snowmen were erected and decorated with carrots, bright colored scarves and old hats and someone's mother usually arrived with steaming cardboard cups of hot chocolate.

In spring, we converted the old dead tree at the top of the hill into a sailing ship and climbed the limbs to raise flags. Wild asparagus grew on the hillside along with daisies and dandylions. A storm had uprooted and overturned a huge tree at the edge of the water and it lay on its side with its root system exposed - it made for a perfect cave - and we fought fiercely against the older kids for possession of it. Defeated, we withdrew but often returned to raid their stashes of cigarettes and beer and then run for our lives.

Come fall, the grass would begin to turn brown and we collected debris and fallen branches to build bonfires. An adult was always on the sidelines during the fires, watching without interfering, there just as a precaution. On Indian summer afternoons we would often do our homework in the shadow of the old tree with small fires burning below us and the smell of smoke thick on the air. Squirrels and chipmunks played hide and seek, chattering as they ran through the underbrush and trees, unhappy at the intrusion and furious when someone's dog tagged along.

The seasons came and went steadily and the faces of the children changed as the years passed. A subdivision was eventually built and the hillside was leveled and paved, the trees cut up and hauled away, the wild asparagus and flowers cemented over. Much of the pond was dredged, filled in and fenced off - even the old uprooted tree disappeared, chain sawed and packed off in a logging truck one fine fall afternoon. The root system was so deep they'd had to use a small dynamite charge and the blast had sent a shockwave across the pond, sending a surprised flock of ducks into flight and several children into tears. A chorus of neighborhood dogs began to bark wildly and my hearing was muffled for several minutes, as if I was underwater. When the smoke cleared, the old overturned tree had been reduced to splinters and my daddy put his arm around me shoulders and walked me home.