On storytelling

So basically, this is going to be fun. So I have a whole lot to tell you before I actually start writing this. Mkay, so basically I've recognized another of my identities: storyteller. I've known this for a while, the fact that I tell stories. But I've never actually called /thought of myself as a storyteller. But I am a storyteller. It's kind of genetic/family thing. My grandma is a storyteller. Like she goes into schools and to conventions and tells stories. It's pretty cool. Anyway, so I tell stories. And I kind of like to put my life into story format, in case you didn't know. So basically I have this new project: writing down some of memories from when I was a kid, like a memoir. And my first story is going to be about sledding. Actually, that might be the second story, because I've already written one, three years ago, for class. Here you go. It's called Tree Memories. I know, very creative.




My memories associated with my early childhood usually have one common theme: tagging along with my brothers, who are two and four years older than I. We spent most of our summer vacations outside; playing millions of make-believe games and running around our yard and the forest across the street. I always wanted to do what they could do, whether it was riding a bike, going to a sleepover, or climbing a tree. I was the typical youngest child, continually being told "You're too young!", "You'll mess it up!", or "You won't be able to keep up!". My dearest goal was to catch up with James and Jesse. The first time I climbed a tree all by myself after watching them do it for months, I experienced a feeling of euphoria that no amount of scolding from my mom could lessen. I was four, and the only tree I could climb was cut down with the rest of the woods a month after I learned how to climb it.

My childhood was defined by trees, my knowledge of the neighbors limited to the trees in their yards. I grew and learned to climb the twisted apple tree at the far edge of Mr. Mills, one of my favorite neighbors (he always gave me salt water taffy), yard. It made a fine secret clubhouse. Especially the spot ten feet up where there were three "seats" we could sit in and conduct our business. The tree that dropped "helicopters" (a maple) in Helen's yard proved to be a satisfactory alternative for the clubhouse when the new neighbors (Mr. Mills moved) cut down the apple tree to make room for a fence. I eventually learned to climb the tree with spiky blue-green needles (a blue spruce) in our own backyard, after Helen died and we could no longer play in the maple tree. In the end, there was only one tree in the immediate neighborhood I couldn't climb; the tall evergreen with the soft needles (a white pine) next to the spiky tree in our backyard.

The lowest branch of the pine was at least six feet above the ground and the distance seemed even longer because I was little. The tree was tall, with slender, bendy needles that seemed to come down all on one day in the fall, leaving a carpet of slippery orange, perfect for making beds and chairs. I was always mystified to how all the orange needles knew to come down together and how there were still needles on the tree after that magical day.

I finally learned to climb that tree after watching Jesse clamber up the trunk. The trick was to take the white mini ladder, jump and catch the second lowest branch, then swing my feet to the lowest branch. Then came wriggling and reaching for higher branches to pull myself to a sitting position. I couldn't go any higher than the lowest branch, but that was okay with me. Getting down was relatively easy. I just reached down to the branch I sat on and twisting, swung myself to where I had a free drop to the ground.

One muggy day in July when the dirty air clung to everything and air conditioners were strangely silent, my mom worked in her garden and I played by myself in the backyard. I was eleven and liked to climb the white pine tree to just sit and think. I had already climbed up and jumped out of the tree two times and was swinging down a third time when it happened. I felt the hood of my blue jacket catch on a branch and I was stuck, dangling above the ground. My hands were twisted awkwardly above my head. My jacket was pulling my arms tautly back. And worst of all, my shirt was beginning to bare my sinking stomach to the hot, humid air.

My three options to get out of the tree: call my mom to help while swallowing my pride, drop and rip my jacket and probably break something as I landed, or silently free myself while dangling six feet above the ground. Thinking fast, I chose to try the last alternative. Breathing hard and hanging onto the branch tightly with my right arm, I reached behind my back to tug at the hood. It was wound securely around the tip of the branch and wouldn't budge. My sweaty forehead was hot in the motionless air as I twisted and turned, struggling to unwind the uncooperative cloth. My arms grew tired and my fear increased with leaps and bounds. I jerked around, my fingers fumbling with the unseen material when suddenly, my hood came free! I dropped to the ground, breathing heavily and feeling the adrenaline coursing through my body, thankful that I wasn't hurt and that Mom hadn't seen me.

I mentioned this incident to my mom several years later. She laughed and told me that she had known what was happening all along and had decided to see if I could handle it on my own. I guess that's a fitting ending to the first time I got myself out of a tricky situation by myself.