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I love walking in the woods. I hesitate to call it hiking, because I’m rarely in search of a summit, or conquering some trail. I hesitate to call it birding, because I feel none of the obsession or competitive spirit that I associate with that particular pastime. My fascination is neither botanical in nature, even if I like trees and other plants, know some of their names. I just like the woods, and I always have. It started before I even remember, way back in the wilds near Route 66 as it winds through St. Louis.

Route 66 was a wondrous thing when I was younger, but its true appeal was not a Target, or a strip mall, or a subdivision—which is apparently what people (or a market survey group) wanted, or at least did not argue. It is largely that whole thought process—the apathy for special things—that made me leave St. Louis when I did. Not that it is really different in other places, but it felt so personal twenty years ago. The drive-in movie theater—the first movie I saw was there—gone to build a huge grocery store. Shopping galore, chain restaurants, anything unique obliterated by the brightly colored coziness of a ubiquitous logo—could we really need more? I hear things about my hometown, and they sound nice. Could it have changed now? Would I like it better now, or would I cringe at the thought of I sometimes wonder, but it is no longer my city.

When I was younger, though, one of the great things about riding a bike down 66, or Laclede Station (which ran next to it) was that in the hot St. Louis summers, there were many areas of shade. Full stretches of land were undeveloped, still wooded. That was my backyard.

The old binoculars were kept on the shelf of the hall closet, often not handy enough to catch a clear view of whatever bird was pecking or perching on the oak tree down the hill. Still, we looked. Birds were important, it was clear from early on, and a sighting of something unusual would often result in an exchange of ringing telephones.

“Look outside! The flickers are back,” our neighbor Jean used to call.

“Did you see the great barred last night?” my mom answered.

“Mama mallard is down in the creek,” we all noticed while out in the backyard.

Our house was set on a hill, an ordinary ranch with a walk-out basement to a small backyard on a terrace, then down the rest of the hill to the creek. Beyond the creek was a large, level wooded area, which we were not supposed to explore—a rule we respected for quite some time—but the creek was open for exploration.

The creek was rarely full of water, though it could fill quickly in a downpour (we were caught a few times on the wrong side of one of those). There were still areas that were usually wet, some great for wading, which was our main pastime before we were allowed to wander farther. There were interesting rocks, sand, fallen branches. It was a great playground, one that grew as we grew older. It wound around forever, it seemed, went under Laclede Station Road at some point, and on to Watson Road, which is Route 66. I once tried to follow it to the River Des Peres, because someone told me that’s where it went.

The woods behind the creek were private property, but it was understood after some time that no one would stop us from being there. A ways down, the creek leveled off, anyway, and wandering was irresistible. A dead tree covered in vines, endless ground cover all around, no houses anywhere in sight: the area invited birds of all sorts. It was a wonderland. I had my favorites. Flickers, wrens, the owl, the occasional pileated woodpecker. I could walk for hours, often did, often found myself heading off instead of doing homework, exploring until late at times, until dinner was ready, or it was getting dark, or until I absolutely had to be back. For some time, my cat came along. She was sort of a wild thing, never warmed up much the way the Siamese kitties always had, but she followed me like a dog through the trails.

For all the time in those woods, I rarely saw another person. Occasionally someone was throwing grass clippings from one of the bordering yards, or a few kids wandered on their own creek adventures, but it was after the era when the high schoolers were avidly seeking that much privacy in wooded areas—maybe the thorns and bugs didn’t go with pink and green. The wildflowers sprouting up in spring, the leaves in fall, the barren cold brush where birds still hid, my own dreams—they were a private oasis.

The owner of the property lived in the area, but not on it. At one time, my dad entertained the thought of buying part of it, but never did. Instead, the owner eventually sold all of the land to a religious charitable organization—a move that sealed the land’s fate ultimately. It was developed, but despite (or maybe because of) the vehement opposition some residents expressed against the project, the cottages that were built were nowhere near as destructive to the woods as the budget castles and strip malls that popped up as land was clear cut on the other side of Laclede Station. I imagine, actually (and it astounds me to hear myself say this, as much as I disliked the idea of development at all), that those cottages are quite wonderful, surrounded as they still are by the trees and birds.

I am far, far from those days now, but woods still call me, birds do, trees do. I don’t have woods in my backyard now, but I find places, anyway—it is vital!—places to wander, explore, to remember and regenerate: places simply to rejoice the world and all its small and everyday wonders.

“Did you see it?” my younger daughter pointed out the car window. “It’s there, there!”

The daily heron lumbered over the Farm Pond, toward the hospital, in search of better fishing, perhaps, or just part of the routine. Who knows?

I love herons. It amazes me that such a large, steady bird can just fly right over the neighborhood and downtown, largely unnoticed as people go on about their business. Seeing them, although not rare, is always an event for our family, perhaps just because I have made it one. I have always liked to watch them, pinning some hope for luck on them as if they were storks… although I don’t really need a stork’s brand of luck anywhere near my house. I love the way herons fold their necks into their bodies as they fly, but leave legs hanging, making their tallness graceful, but not graceful enough to lose charm. When they have found a nice, shallow river, they stand, silently, forever, it would seem, for the essential fish to swallow whole. They wait for what sustains them, and take it in a breathless and elegant moment.

The heron spotting for today happened in spite of rain that had started hitting the windshield lightly. Another rainy day, after all. In some ways, the rain seems a relief. We were all already wet, riding home from a swim, hungry, and a little cold, to be honest. The car doors open, and girls spilled out, running into the house. An hour remained before boys would return from camp. The girls ran a bath to warm up, dried off, put on pajamas (yes, pajamas) and took peanut butter sandwiches to the basement. They started drawing.

I made tea and watched them for a while. They were quiet, more likely exhausted after a very late bedtime last night. I was tired, too, working in morning, yes, the swim, too. I could have slept later this morning.

So, now I can sneak upstairs for a few minutes before the late afternoon. I crave my attic. Like the balcony, it is accessible only from my bedroom, my own private spaces. My records are there. Let’s see.. what for today? Glen Campbell, Todd Rundgren, Charlie Rich. Charlie Rich? No, maybe not a good choice for mid-afternoon. I opt for the Lovin’ Spoonful. Hums. Yes, “Rain on the Roof” seems pretty obvious. But what I want, two songs actually, are on a greatest hits album. Where is it? Yes. I have to hear “You Didn’t Have to Be So Nice” (I love the way it adds the layers) and then, one that always makes my heart beat faster, “Darling Be Home Soon.” Never mind what the song does to me, I am just still impressed with the “dawdled”/”toddled” rhyme.

So, I put on the album, and gather myself. A big, round, fuzzy white rug covers most of the floor, and it is there that I sit, looking through the quarter-circle windows that really do open. I look down at the rain puddling up in the neighbors’ yards, and I look through the steam of my tea at the gas station down the street, the umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalk. I love this quiet moment. In a few minutes, it will be busy again, for a while. And then, later, in a few hours, it will be wonderful in ways that nights are wonderful, wonderful wishes, wonderful, graceful, lumbering words.

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Now playing: Lovin’ Spoonful, The - Darling Be Home Soon
via FoxyTunes