Ask me what I ate for dinner last night and I’m hard-pressed to answer. Life is busy. Distractions are endless. That little digital box in my pocket keeps my mind from committing to memory just about everything. It’s a helpful little convenience and a curse. Maybe I’m getting old. But I’m guessing a few others might feel the same. It’s a symptom of the times.
But then there are old memories. Why do those stick? For me, they are few. But the ones that have managed to hang around for this party called my life are powerful. And one of the strongest happened almost a half a century ago.
As a kid down at the end of our road was a “big” grove of old maples we called “The Trees”. At least they seemed big to me as a child. It was in those Trees I found a certain quiet creativity when walking through them alone. I would pretend I was going on great hikes into the wilderness. There, I was not so much against the world, but in it. Surrounded in magic.