Crooked Tree Paul O Scott II

There was a forest directly behind our house when I was a kid we called the woods. It was the place my brother and I, along with Doug a neighborhood kid, grew up. Doug was like us in that he was always around. Redheaded, freckled faced, black horn rimmed glasses, maybe even taped in the middle, he was about my age, and he shared our woods. The woods were bounded by houses on two sides, of which one was ours, and by two busy streets on the other sides. The whole forest was about 500 yards by 500 yards. It was not all forest though, since the last fifty yards or so were overgrown fields. We did not have the deed for that land, but it was ours for any purpose that a child would have. This forest had something that was very unique and out of the ordinary. It wasn't the sort of thing you see everyday. It happened long before we were ever born. That did not stop us from spending countless hours discussing how it happened. This mysterious anomaly that bore witness to some unknown torture that had left such a deformity. Was it shaped by weather? Did some unknown force crush it for a length of time? Breaking free from the bondage that had restricted its growth to lift towards the sky with vigor and enthusiasm, only to then suffer a similar disaster that left it oppressed again. Did it reach above the canopy higher than its peers to remain above the threat against any future oppressor? We never did decide upon the answer. We would all discover this hidden secret deep in the forest, yet none of us were able to grasp quite how it happened. We just accepted that some things simply are, and no explanation can be given that will satisfy the curious mind.

Even now a long gentle bend on a road or a path, the sweet pungent smell of pine, or even a hammock gently bending a pair of young trees can swiftly take my mind back to that childhood forest, back to that towering silent guardian that stood watch over all our goings on. It was a crooked tree, an old slow growth pine tree, but it was not just a tad bit crooked or bent. No, that would be all too ordinary to have given us boys much reason to ponder. This tree was a good two feet in diameter and formed a giant three foot tall letter C about three feet above the ground. Now, a bent tree is not all that unusual, but I have never seen a tree that bent in such an acute manner. So this misshapen tree forming a giant letter C officially became Crooked Tree. This special part of this tree, hidden from all but us, was our secret place, our meeting spot, and our hangout where future forts were planned. It was the epicenter of a childhood spent roaming a forest, where the adventures of the day were only limited to the imaginations of young boys. It took us a while to find it, since it was surrounded by an almost impenetrable stand of much smaller six to eight feet pines. The forest was the place we played out whatever we could imagine. There were many variations of hide and seek, Robin Hood running from the Sheriff, a downed pilot running from the Germans or the Japanese, or a spy hiding from the Russians. None of us remember who, much less how, it was found, only that one day it simply was. The scar was hidden in the midst of a thicket, only those who dared to venture into the shadowy darkness of that thicket would ever find it. The small wispy trees were easily moved, but the prickle of pine needles on the back of your neck; or a pushed down tree springing up on its own to brush its scaly pine bark along a pant leg; a field of vision of only a foot, all worked together to make it kind of spooky. A scary place for young boys with very active imaginations, to have ever ventured there

required the type of bravery inspired by the fear of being left out or even being thought a fraidy cat. In the midst of the thicket there was a clearing of eight to ten feet with a ready-made sanctuary, nature's shrine to herself and our playground, a place of respite for the business of young boys minds. We always held a sort of reverence for that tree and to this day none of us knows why, only that it was unique in all the world, and it was ours, even if it sat on some unknown persons land. It was as if that tree had some mystical powers of protecting us from the bad things that could happen in the woods. I know that it seemed on at least one occasion I was granted special immunity from a pretty stupid thing I did. We were on our way home from Crooked Tree. We would often take the roundabout way home, leaving by the back way and walking along the boundary between the field and the woods. Along the way we could gather snacks for our adventures; after all growing boys are always hungry. We did not know of things such as fruit roll-ups. Depending upon the season we ate honeysuckle or muscadines, but most often the preferred snack was a sweet fat glistening blackberry, loaded with natural sweetness. If we picked enough Mom would make a cobbler or some preserves. We made sure we picked enough to get both along with a purple stained handful or three to eat as well. If you dropped a match in this grass, you would never be able to put it out, said the nine year old Derek, as he stood in grass that was up to his thighs; it was yellowed dry straw-like grass, the kind that just grew year after year and never got cut. Paul, twelve years old and not one to turn down a challenge said, We will see about that. Watch this! He confidently tossed a match into the field of grass. A conflagration resulted and his confidence vanished as rapidly as the heat rising from the

yellow grass that was now billowing red flames. Stomp, stomp, run! Oh no, Daddy's home and we have to tell Momma, to call the fire department. God, please, I don't want to die. I don't know about righteousness, but that prayer sure met the Biblical requirement for earnestness. Derek, my little brother, was even compassionate. Surely you are going to die, he told me as we ran home, Daddy is going to kill you. Oh man am I glad it was you and not me. Can I have your bike? We came bursting in the door and babbling , The woods are on fire! The woods are on fire! Mom and Dad quickly called the fire department without hesitation and with no discussion about what happened or anything of that nature. Dad put his boots on to follow us to the scene of the crime. We heard the rapidly approaching wail of sirens. Smoke was pouring into the woods from the field creating a foggy effect. The smell of smoke was causing a burning feeling in my nostrils. We arrived about the same time as the fire department and watched as they worked to get the now blazing inferno put out. Without a lot of water nearby, the fire department quickly determined a backhoe and a firebreak was the best course of action. Once they had begun to make the firebreak, the question finally came, Son, just what in the hell happened here? Some stuttering, some huge crocodile tears, and a trembling lower lip came with my rendition of the events EXACTLY as they occurred. This was too serious and Dad was too smart for me to try and lie, so I might as well tell the truth and beg for mercy. Dad went and talked to the firemen, and the chief came and gave me a lecture about playing with matches. Since Dad and Mom were dues paying members of the volunteer fire department, there would be no charge for the call. There would also be no charges for the arsonist. As

we walked back up the well-worn path to the house, my mind was imagining punishments that no loving father would ever inflict upon even the most guilty of children. Son, came that stern deep bass voice that I use to get my grandchildren's attention. Yes Daddy, came my timid response. You're entirely too damned smart for the stupidity you displayed today, and you know how I hate that word stupidity don't you? Yes sir, my voice rising at the end as in a question, since I was beginning to wonder where he was going with all this. Do you know that you could have burned down our house, possibly several houses. Worse still you could have hurt or even killed somebody? Yes sir, I do now, I tried to say between muffled sobs. We were getting close to the house by now, and I was getting more nervous which each step. Son, I appreciate you telling me the truth about what you did, and I better not hear anymore about you playing with matches or starting fires without getting permission. Do you understand me? Yes sir, I am really sorry Daddy. I said with a plea for mercy in my voice. I know you are son, said my dad. Now dry that face up and go play. Your Momma will call you when it is time for supper. Off I went to Crooked Tree. I knew Derek would be there, I did not know Doug would be there too. They were both waiting to hear what had happened. Derek was dismissed prior to Dad's talk with me, and Doug had joined him. They were incredulous that I had been let off with just a warning. We all knew that the tree had provided mercy. That gentle giant always watched over us in that forest. That tree and her loyal

subjects, the forest surrounding it, caused all who entered to be calmed. Perhaps the curse that had deformed it had enchanted it as well. The magical enchantment of peace beating to the rhythm of nature brought serenity to all visitors. It even calmed our very strict father the day I sat the field on fire and on many other occasions. We often pondered why we never seemed to get in trouble for the things we did in the woods. Perhaps the deformity that had shaped that tree had paid forward for our transgressions in that forest. None of us were Wiccans or worshipers of nature, but we always thanked God for our Crooked Tree.