Thursday, January 22, 2015


By Beatrice M. Hanson

This wasn't a trip of mileage or of some fantastic place or scene, rather what we called a “hike”, in the days of my youth.
I was ten years old then. Today, at sixty, I can recall the spirit of adventure on that day in May, when we started out before dawn, my little friend and I, to spend the day in the woods and fields below the mountain ranges.
The day was just breaking, when we met at the agreed corner. Leaving the main road, we penetrated deeply into pasture-land, innocently unconcerned of any form of transgressing. Side stepping marshy places, rolling under barbed wire fences, we hiked for miles before discovering what we both instantly agreed on as the “Secret Nook”. A gurgling brook descended from the top of a bluette covered hill.

It cascaded down a rocky ledge, gracefully rounded a weeping willow tree, before losing itself again among the tall green grass, with only it’s musical mumblings to give itself away. Forget-me-nots grew along it’s banks. We found Lady Slippers and Jack in the Pulpits.
Being warm and tired from our walk, we threw ourselves down on the hill of bluetts so thick as to resemble a blanket of blue.
The sky was deep blue and cloudless. A soft breeze blew the tall grass about as though imaginary fairies were moving about.
Removing our shoes and socks, we set out to free the hurrying brook of any entanglements we thought might block it’s way on it’s determined trip to the ocean. We worked silently, without exchanging a word, like small boys do when they have only one thing on their minds.
At high noon, the pangs of hunger drove us to stop. Under the shade of the willow tree, we ate our pocket lunch of bread and jelly, after which we lay flat on our stomachs to quench our thirst with long gulps of clear, cool water.

Hours later, as the sun reached the West, we headed for home both vowing to return at a later date. We took one last look at our discovery.
The farmers herd of cows were waiting at the gate as we came out of the woods. We carried our assortment of souvenirs, odd shaped stones, clutches of bluetts to replant, wild violets and flowers for May baskets.
I only remember my folks were having their evening meal when I walked into our kitchen that evening, I went straight to my own room, and, as I recall, was actually asleep before my head hit the pillow.
One day of it’s kind in a man's lifetime, A perfect May day, combined with the spirit and state of mind of the very young.