Things do go sideways
The south I grew up in no longer exists. Perhaps it never existed — except in the imagination of the boy who was growing up there — and then.
I grew up traipsing through tall pines, drinking cool water from clear creeks. Until I got my first summer job, in a tobacco field for one of my dad’s brother-in-laws, I could count on being out in the little wood by my house — or meandering through the larger stretch that went for miles, unbroken in those days, down to the river. My mom’s brothers had grown up wandering around in the woods so she wasn’t particularly worried about me doing so. As long as I made it home by supper — and didn’t bring home any snakes to show her.
Even after starting the summer jobs, I would find my way to the woods on Saturdays. The pines offered quiet. Not that my house was particularly loud but, there is quiet that the soul needs beyond just a lack of noise. They also offered shade — which, in south Georgia, was very welcome during the summers. In the cool, aromatic shade of those pines, listening to the wind blow, the birds sing, and the other critters scurry about, you would be hit with the notion that life was good. Whatever had been weighing on you had been lifted somewhere along the path. There would be peace for a bit.
When I wasn’t alone in the woods, I was usually accompanied by my best friend. Together we could transform the peaceful wood into a war zone — with BB guns, loud whoops, and the more than occasional crash into trees and each another. We would ‘parachute’ from the younger trees. The trick was to find one that was sturdy enough to hold your weight but pliable enough that, when you shimmied to the top, holding to the tip, you could kick your feet out and the tree would bend under your weight, carrying you most of the way to the ground before you would let go and it would snap back to attention. We also built at least one fort every year. We would carry our axes and hatchets out, scour the wood for fallen trees, and fashion forts, sometimes two stories tall, that would last until next year — or until we needed firewood.
Getting your driver’s license changes everything. Among other things, such as girls, I discovered that I was only an hour and a half from the Atlantic Ocean. When not working, I would drive that short distance, not as regularly as I had previously visited the woods, but often enough to fall in love with the ocean. And, the southern climate allowed for those visits year round. It was louder than the woods. The wind, unfettered by trees and such, was a constant low roar. That, and the waves coming to the shore. But, even in that noise, or, perhaps because of it, the troubles of the day would bleed off as you looked out to the horizon. And you would be left thinking deeper thoughts than normal life allowed for.
I would like to say that it is all the same but, things never stay the same. In a recent visit the wood was in obvious need of boys — though the stream could probably not be reclaimed. There are no quiet stretches of beach — unless you get up before all the other vacationers. The 17 year-old who left in search of career and adventure didn’t return either.
But, I do find, when some unfortunate person in my grown-up world is experiencing some minor trauma and makes the comment about whatever isn’t working for them ‘going south’, I must admit that my mind takes me somewhere completely different from where they intend.
