Circles

I often bemoan the fact that I will likely never be able to show the boys the places where I grew up.  Too far, too expensive and in many cases, they don't actually exist the way I remember them.  Two things in the last few weeks have made me take notice.

Last week we attended a lovely Lughnasadh ritual at a local beach.  After the ritual we were walking in the dunes when we came upon a trail that led past a great climbing tree.  The trail climbs and dips in such a way that it is nearly invisible from the beach shelter.  I had noticed the  top of the tree earlier, it's the tallest in the dunes and had several crows attentively perched in it's higher branches. Doodle, of course, wanted to explore so off we went into the dunes.  As we rounded the corner the tree, the trail, the whole place took my breath away.  It is a near perfect miniature copy of a place I dearly loved as a kid.

In the middle of our tiny town in Western Australia was a dry stream bed, surrounded by bush  crossed with trails.  I would disappear there for hours. One particular trail led to a giant Tuart tree.  To get to it on the trail you had to ride a bike fast  down the steep embankment to the dry creek bed.  Fast enough to be able to climb back out without putting your feet down.  That was our self imposed rule.  Inside the red belted "wilderness" kid society ruled.  It was as though we had our own planet.  I loved it there.  On one side of our wild place was the back of the local wild life rescue where I would go and talk to the camels and hold the baby guineas.   The tree and trail  that Doodle found on the beach was so reminiscent of this place, it stopped me in my tracks.  I took a peek at Google earth and it looks like my childhood wild place is still there.  Amazing.  Maybe he will get to see it one day.  In the mean time I'm glad he has found his own tiny place.

Last week Doodle went to a day camp on an island.  Everyday I would watch him run down the dock and take off on the ferry for a days worth of sandy campy fun,  Every day I would have just a twinge of fear as he hit the boat.  It's a tiny ride on a very safe vessel, but sometimes it's my job to worry.  When I was  5 and 6 years old my mother put me on a bus, and then a boat and another bus, every day to get to kindergarten and first grade.  She must have been terrified.  I didn't go on a  nice modern ferry.  I went in a flat bottomed troop carrier with a canvas cover.  I remember leaning over the side to trail my hand through Pearl Harbor on the way to school. While a week of ferry crossings is not the same as two school years it does feel like, again, he is getting a small piece of my childhood.  This one really is gone.  Ford Island has a bridge now.  Almost no one goes by boat or ferry anymore.

I don't know why it's such a big deal for me to show him these things.  This weekend Doodle got to see one of his Dad's favourite childhood places.  I was actually a little jealous.  No one can ever really understand the childhood of their parents. All anyone ever has is a series of stories and approximations. Doodle's Dad grew up here and his childhood is all around us it's concrete.  Mine is a little bit of a mystery, even to myself sometimes!  I don't want to be that annoying person that always has a foot in the past, but I can't forget it and somehow I have to pass some of that information on.  Anyone want to come with us on a South Pacific, Indian Ocean tour?  Maybe next year.