The Powerlines

My childhood neighborhood is surrounded by woods thanks to large powerlines that pass along the north and a golf course through some wooded property to the west. As has always been true, if I had free time, I would be outside rather than in. After school I would race out the front door with no intentions of returning until the streetlights turned on. At that moment, I would sprint, bike, or, for a brief time, skate back to the house for dinner dropping what ever I was doing until the next day.

There were two groups that I hung out with throughout gradeschool. The regular neighborhood crew played sports depending on the professional sports season. Basketball was on my driveway; football was generally played across the street at Billy's; hockey was played on the cul-de-sac in front of Lou's; and wiffleball eventually ended up in the Liotti's back yard with the outfield measurements posted on the far fence. When picking teams, I was always in the middle of the order never having the grit or swagger needed to be the star on the field, but never left out either, with the unfortunate exception of baseball. Byron and Chris composed of the other group. They never joined the regular games and periodically would get into fights with the neighborhood guys who were trying to display that swagger.

Byron, Chris and I would head further and further into the woods creating challenges depending on what was offered. We would collect tadpoles and attempt to raise them in an aquarium in one of the back yards. We would choose trees in close proximity with enough sway to climb one and transfer to the other at the top. Sometimes we would find one that bent enough so we could climb to the top and parachute down to the ground. We would build campfires. Once, we found a large piece of styrofoam floating in one of the ponds and sculpted it into a canoe to traverse the cold waters of late autumn. We would shimmy along the banks of the chilly water using what we could grab to keep from falling in. Sometimes one of us would fall and that would start the trek back to the bright manicured lawns of our homes. In those expanding woods, each trip would reveal something new.

Drinks and the fumbling pursuit of girls supplanted those adventures in high school and in through college. With the exception of my winter season passes at Sunday River, I remained in that fog.  Now, periodic ventures into the woods are a psychological necessity.