Mother’s Day always puts me in mind of Schaub’s woods. The neighboring farm had a block of woods within walking distance of our farm. In the old days, and often now still farmers have a few acres of woods here and there. In days gone by it was used as a good place to make firewood. Often cows were pastured there, finding deep shade and comfort there. I found deep shade and comfort there too. I still do. Mama hikes there still.
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The steers with the woods in the
background in the spring. |
I spent a lot of time in those woods as a kid. Mother’s day was was usually the first trek. By then it wasn’t as muddy, and made for good walking. Each year I went on a walk to gather wild flowers for Mama. By mother’s Day the trilliums were growing thick. I remember the first time I picked one for Mama because it was so pretty and Mama told me not to. You see, a trillium is a delicate plant that takes a long time to grow. My little brain couldn’t quite fathom how a flower that grew so thickly in our neighboring woods could be endangered. My little bouquet had all sorts of early spring gems in it; strawberry blossoms, and my personal favorite - violets! I spent the an hour in the outhouse, hiding, so I could assemble the most perfect corsage.
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| My daughter on the rock. |
The woods was and still is a lovely place on a summers day. It is shady and cool, and if it weren’t for the bugs, it would heaven. In heaven, I imagine there are no skeeters. The canopy didn’t let a lot of light through. It was dim, and I followed the paths left by the deer, avoiding the sharp brambles that grew on the forest floor. I spent hours there. I built tipis and other lodges along the creek; the same creek that crossed though our own pasture. I watched the birds and the squirrels while sitting in the great oak that had been taken down in a storm. It had all sorts of comfy places to snuggle in with some snacks and a book. There was also a huge rock. The kind with the holes in it like Swiss cheese and was fun to perch on. If nature built a stage it would be that rock. It has a rugged sort of beauty folks now days would call “primitive.”
Come Christmas time, Mama hiked to the woods with her Ash splint, pack basket to gather greenery to decorate the house. The house smelled delicious after those trips.
In the crisp cold of January, I snowshoed or cross country skied to the woods. Sometimes I brought friends along, but often I went alone. Myself as a lost trekker in the Alaskan wilderness, that instantly disappeared as soon as my cherry nose smelled fresh ginger cake just out of the cook stove oven, and I was back in my cozy house in Wisconsin.
In the fall, Pa and I rode our horses to the woods. Pa on one of the many bays and me on good ol’ Sam or eventually my own horse. We galloped up the hill and plodded quietly though the peaceful woods. Peaceful except when Pa left a branch swing back and hit me in the face, giggling as we do when out for a ride. We came out on the back side of the woods, further than I often went on my own, and circled back towards home. When we crested the hill. The horses chomped on their bit begging us to turn them loose for home, but we never did. Any horsemen worth his salt won't give a horse its head returning to the barn. Holding them at a walk, we plodded back into the yard. Just in time for chore time and a cup of tea.
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| The rainbow ending in the woods as it often did. |
I truly hope these treasured little pockets of woods are something that is always there. Schaub’s woods hold a few little plants found very few other places. They are little glimpse of what was. If you look closely and listen hard you can probably still hear the people who once called the land home, or catch a glimpse of the cows that sought its cool shade in summer pasture. Little places where generations of kids got lost until suppertime and I can’t imagine the world without such places.
