Do little girls still need private places for dreaming? Do they need to ponder about growing up or do they just do it?
My private spot as a child was the pine tree in my neighbor’s back yard–which meant I had to sneak over when no one was watching. If the neighbor lady caught me walking through her yard, she’d insist I come in for lemon-aide. Once there I had to view her latest pair of knitted slippers. She had dozens of these slippers. In fact I had several pairs myself–all colors–given to me by her for every birthday and Christmas that I can remember.
I’d also have to endure Skippy, a small, black dog that loved to bark and lick my legs. I thought Skippy could use some manners, but my neighbor lady just thought Skippy was cute.
Don’t get me wrong. My neighbor was a nice lady. In fact, she was as close to a grandma as I was going to get. Years later when I married, she attended my wedding and gave me a seasoned iron skillet–twenty-nine years later, I still use that skillet. But back then, when a girl had some serious thinking to do about life and war, and Bobby Sullivan, the sixth grader down the street, orange knitted slippers with red poofy balls on the toes seems an unnecessary distraction.
My pine tree was taller than any house around and I was the perfect height to jump up to the first limb and swing my gangling legs over and climb aboard. At the tippy top of this tree, I could look down on the world unencumbered and incognito. It seemed like it was the only place I could be alone with me.
I always had pine sap between my knees, but it was a small price to pay for solitude. This special tree was my secret place to think my young, confused thoughts through. As a fifth grader everything seemed wild and out of control around me. The Cuban Crisis loomed and my Florida backyard had somehow become the target. Growing up in the 50s and 60s with bomb shelters, riots and beatniks convinced me that the adults in charge were losing their grip.
One day, while swaying to and fro in my tree, I decided I was going to be different. I vowed that as a mom, I would only cook spaghetti and hamburgers and never drink milk. Shoes would always be optional and a ponytail always appropriate for any occasion. Pedal pushers could be worn to church, and playing in ditches would not be off limits to any of my daughters. I would live in peace with all nations, and all twelve of my children would have their own dog.
And then there was my body. It was beginning to betray me. I was getting lumps and bumps where I didn’t want them. Boys no longer wanted to pick me first for their kickball teams. They wanted instead to write me notes about going steady. How yucky was that?
Other days I would just climb up to the top of my pine tree and just listen. The sights and sounds floating around me gave me confidence that despite the possibility the world could end at any moment, everything would be all right. A basketball bouncing off the pavement and clean sheets popping in the breeze were reassuring. A dog barking in the distance, a mother calling her children home for supper, made my heart settle and my breathing become normal again.
The swinging motion of my tree, rocked me gently like a cradle calming my fears and making my spirit hopeful again. Whatever my thoughts, I came down from my pine tree a little better equipped to face the next adolescent happening or the next bomb drill–whichever came first.
The next time you see a little girl who looks like she needs some extra space, point her in the direction of a friendly looking tree and give her a boost up. Encourage her to climb toward the sun and to wave at eagles.
Oh, and by the way, if you’re ever driving around town and spot chubby varicose-veined legs dangling from an overloaded tree branch, don’t be alarmed. It’ll just be me pondering about life and other stuff and trying to decide on spaghetti or hamburgers for supper.
by Deb Cleveland
