My dad used to take us for walks in the woods when we lived
in Nebraska. We would wake up early and hurry to put on grubby clothes and
old tennis shoes so that we could go tromp around the dirt paths and muddy
puddles that lay deep within Mahoney State Park. I don’t have very many
specific memories of these adventures, they all just seem to jumble together
after a while. I remember that there was this long bridge that stretched across
the Platte River. One day when I didn't go hiking, my family saw hawks and
eagles perched on the sandy plains that stood in the shallow water. I can
remember hoping that every time I walked on the bridge I would get to see the majestic
fowl that lived on the banks of the Platte River.
Another time that we went to the park, my best friend
Jessica Jones came with us. As we were passing under a bridge, she looked over
at me and said, “Do you know that people put dead bodies under bridges?” From
this point on, I was terrified to walk under that bridge for fear that I would
stumble across a dead body. And I think that I can safely say that for years
after that experience, I would always look for dead bodies when I went under a
bridge, or wonder if there was one hiding below when we would drive over a
bridge. I never did find any.
We went on a different morning to go mushroom hunting. I
hated mushrooms, and I thought it was a waste of time. My dad was so passionate
about it thought. He told us that his dad used to take him mushroom hunting
when he was little. We looked all over for those dang mushrooms, they were hard
to find. I think we did get a few of them though. We brought them home and my
dad fried them up. I can’t remember if I tasted them, but I remember that they
smelled divine.
I think that being in the woods, or even just outdoors, was
my favorite part of growing up in Nebraska. My sister and I would often play
Little House on the Prairies and pretend that we were pioneers in the vast
west. Or we would play Indians with our babysitters, the Nachtigalls. Maybe my
creativity started here. I would have to imagine that the tree I was in was not
just a tree, but that it was a home where I, White Dove or Little Bluebird or whatever
“Indian” name I called myself, lived with my brothers and sisters. We would
climb in the tree and the barns and pretend that we were a family who had to
hunt and gather to survive. I loved being an Indian.
Another beautiful memory that sticks out in my mind is being
out at the Baxter’s pond. My dad would take me out there to fish with him. I
can still smell the murky pond water and hear the sound of the birds chirping
and the bullfrogs croaking. If dad and I were feeling particularly adventurous,
we would make our way down a steep, little hill to a clearing. In my mind, this
was the best fishing spot, because it is where I caught my Mater Angler Large
Mouth Bass, which I guess you could say is my most prized possession. If we
weren't up for the challenge, we would just fish on the banks towards the front
of the pond.
As I am writing this, I wonder where that little girl that
loved nature so much as disappeared to. I can’t imagine going outdoors anymore
to just simply be in nature. If I am outside, I have to have a purpose. When I
am writing though, I like to picture myself sitting in a long cabin, in the
mountains, left with only my thoughts and a journal. I close my eyes and see
beautiful pine trees scattered in my front yard. I see vast mountains rising up
to touch the sky, with snow resting on their heads. I see deer, darting for
cover behind the trees that tower above the winding river. I like to imagine
that one day I will live here. Alone with only my thoughts to keep me company.
There lies underneath my girly exterior a small child who
longs to be in nature, to listen to the birds singing the song the Creator has
given them, to inhale and breathe in the fresh air. I like to go to the cabin
in the mountains when I am feeling particularly stressed or worried. I escape
to my imagination when my heart has a story to write.
