70's and 80's Country Kid Chronicles: Nature, Circa 1978
When Dad was babysitting, it was Kung Fu, Cowboy Movies, music only days in the house, and football. Maybe I knew a bit more about Charles Bronson and Marvelous Marvin Hagler than the next kid, but that kid also knew their fair share. We ramped bikes, played in the "crick," and caught crawdads while barefoot in the cool water by flipping our fair share of rocks.
Nature was our playground every day--when Dad was babysitting, we could guarantee that we'd get to go outside. Mom was the organizer, so if she was out with her mom and sister for the whole day, we had nowhere fancy to be, so we could play messy to our heart's content.
Knowing the woods like a cliche, we could run at full sprint. We spoke the language fluently because she raised us from pups. We were her children and returned back to her with love in our hearts and arms wide open. So fast, we could feel the airbrushed breeze over our temples as we ran.
Being raised by her was the best medicine for all our ills, and oh how deeply we cared for her. Her hair was the beautiful leaf-laden boughs, and the music from her locks cascaded down upon us like rain. Oh, every time she shook, shook, nodded, and rattled while dancing with the wind--called us to softened attention. With eyes of awe, we looked up and knew why Father loved Mother so. We were and are still so enamored by her.
We could move how we wished to move, sing and laugh loudly and deep, sink bare feet into the humus and become rooted again. The essence of bravery--knowing another world as the one you know by heart. Finding kinship with all things in attendance there. The weatherman was irrelevant to us, as we could feel and smell the rain coming--how the change in air pressure instantly reacted upon our skin like a signal to make different choices. Immediately knowing and subconsciously changing direction without hesitation.
Mud was revered and leaves served as a garnish atop only the finest mud pies in the forest. We loved it so much we wanted to live there and made elaborate plans detailing the kind of town we must have--down to the map.
"Don't stray far from my protection children, or you will go mad," she says.
We believe her but affix our gaze to the shine of other things and act like we forget her. She never leaves us, but this doesn't mean she is okay with us being gone. When what used to be second nature is not, we've been gone too long. When we can no longer speak the language she taught us as children, we've been gone too long.
We're a world gone mad, and she waits without judgment for us to return home and stop fighting battles we have no reason to fight. We fight them because of an imbalanced perspective. We fight ourselves over disguises we wear every day as if it's Halloween, and they're too tight, scratchy, and easily torn. We wear the cheap plastic masks of our childhood that make us short of breath and overheated. Under the weight of that, held by the flimsiest elastic on record.
Putting her through all of that, she waits for us still to get home safely with the porch light on.
It's time to go back home.
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