When I was young, I never thought about the days ahead, and I certainly never thought about the day I would say, “When I was young.”
But here I am. We all get there… sooner or later.
When I was little more than a curious child growing up in the shadow of the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York, I would often play in the woods near my house. I would enter through a gate in the back corner of our neighbor’s yard and, from there, follow a path that wound its way deep into the trees. I remember it well, even now, when it has been over forty years since my feet last marched upon it in a manner not much different from that of Christopher Robin.
The path was well-worn, but not by me, nor my older brother. From my point of view, it had always been there. It was there when I first walked into those woods, and I like to think it is still there today.
I remember wondering who made it. Who blazed the path and then wore it down so well? Back then, I imagined it was created by children who came before me… other kids like me who played in those woods.
I also liked to think it was made in my grandfather’s time (his farm lay across the field, its grey house and red barn an image affectionately engrained into my memory)… or even earlier, when the Scottish founders of our small town may have hunted in those woods.
I liked to imagine things… I was that kind of kid.
I do not know how far the path delved into the woods, for I never walked it to the other end. I always turned around… eventually. Still, I often wondered how far it went into the trees.
But, I was young, and even though I loved to play in the woods, I knew better than to wander very deep into it… not out of fear of what might lay waiting for me (although I did often imagine bears, bobcats, and other sharp-clawed pointy teeth animals being in there), but a simple fear of the punishment my mother would provide if she found out I had strayed too far.
Today, I look back with the added experience that comes with age and wish I had walked further down that path. I would have loved to discover where it went. Perhaps a clue about who made the path lie waiting at the other end. Or maybe it led to the other side of the woods, and there passed through another gate, where another kid would often venture into the woods, but like me, never too far.
I miss that path. I miss the feel of it beneath my feet. I miss the woods of my youth.
