The Swamp

Deep in the woods there was a stream. When the stream bent to the right, you would go left to visit The Swamp. The Cliffs hugged the hill to the right and were great for climbing and peering under the overhang for critters, namely porcupines or the imagined bear. The Swamp however lay in the valley, spotted with moss covered stumps convenient for leaping across the black murk that bubbled below. Skunk cabbage grew on top of the stumps, low bearing plants that actually flowered. A cruel deception, for when you stepped on them a fetid stench was released, a veritable stink bomb. These mild perils of course only added to the excitement, for every adventure needs at least a flare of danger, be it black muck that swallows your Nike or rancorous cabbage. On the patches of firmer ground between the marshes there grew smoke mushrooms, delightful fungi that when you stomped on them gray smoke-like powder puffed up in miniature clouds. The Swamp had a variety of fun things to do. As a whole Braaten Woods felt magical, and met our unquenchable search for a story to tell, or a mystery to solve. I had always hoped I would find a clue or an old map that would lead to treasure. I never found treasure, well except an old pot or two housing angry bees and one dog skeleton.

Karen and I up top, Julie and Christen
on the bottom floor

Christen and I were down by The Cliffs one afternoon when we found it. The skeleton of a former pet that had taken a last long walk with our Uncle. Could it be Shotzi? The poodle? No, too small of a skull. Or perhaps it was the Samoyed, the dog that growled its last time at my mother when she was pregnant. We knew it had to be one of the Braaten Hill dogs because of the tell-tale bullet hole through the skull. We were not a family that believed in vets after a certain point. When our dogs would become sick, or lame, or had gone wild, well let's just say their days were numbered.

It's a mystery how a dog "goes wild". My assumption was that they would begin to spend too much time in the woods. Slowly, lured by a new taste of freedom they continue to forge deeper and deeper, dusting off their primal instinct to kill and eat, and leaving behind once and for all the Leash of Civility. So, impressionable and dumb to the ways of the wild, our domesticated pets would eventually mingle with the wrong crowd, the Hooligans of the Forest just waiting to woo them to the dark side. I pictured our poodle in a darkened cave smoking Lucky Strikes and playing cards with thieving Raccoons and Coyotes of ill repute. Weeks would go by, and our once innocent poodle would return from the Cave of Debauchery, jaded and hardened with a chip on her shoulder and a snarl in her lip. It was the late seventies, early eighties, when pets were actually considered animals and not "the furry children" that pooped in the yard. If you had a dog that went wild or was too old to walk, or was in a lot of pain, it was that time. Time to dial the Uncle of Mercy on the rotary phone. To quote George in Of Mice and Men, "tell me about the rabbits Lenny, tell me about the rabbits..."

The Evidence, photo taken by
Uncle John

 Christen and I investigated the skull and bones, trying to piece them together. We could hear a low rumble of thunder from a distance, our time was limited, and it was then an idea came to us. A brilliant idea. How cool would this skull look on a stick in the middle of the Swamp?  We found the perfect stick and poked it through the eye socket, then firmly stuck it in the mud in the middle of the marsh. It was starting to get dark, the storm was getting closer. We stepped back and looked at our garish display. It was gloriously cool. Karen, Christen's little sister was beginning to cry and get scared that the storm was getting closer and we were still outside. We began to run back up the Hill, excited, adrenaline fueling our race against the storm.

Later Uncle John found our pole of horror and was of course deeply concerned. At that time Witch Covens were the talk of the town, rumored to have stolen pets for satanic sacrifices. It was also the day of Dungeons and Dragons, and Back-masking, the belief that hidden messages from hell could be heard when you played a record backwards. So when you find a stick with a skull on it in the middle of a swamp, naturally your parent mind would question, "of what witchery is this?" A parent meeting was to be held on Braaten Hill, that is until Christen and I finally confessed to the deed. There was not much more to be said about it. Uncle John was naturally relieved a Coven had not taken up residence in our woods, but I wonder if a new concern was born about his daughter and niece and their definition of fun.

Christen and I at the Crime Scene, most likely it was all Christen's idea...

Nostalgia can be a powerful thing. The week before I left for Connecticut a friend of mine (who happens to be a psychologist) said, "It will put you back to the age you were and there is nothing you can do about it." "Nothing?" I asked. "Nothing." He said. He said it with such finality, as if he lumped this thing, this force called Nostalgia with the other inevitable dooms of life like Death, Taxes and Bad Health Insurance. Since I've been on Braaten Hill he was right in a way. This is not to say Nostalgia is a bad thing. It brings back all of my favorite memories, however can be all consuming in nature, like a wave swallowing you whole. You lose your footing and either have to yield to survive or foolishly fight and sputter, gasping for some semblance of reason to ground you. But your feet will never find ground because memories are unreasonable things. They demand attention, your full attention, and will haunt you until you look them in the eye and say, "what?! What is it already?!" At least this is my experience. So I will write to purge the beast, or persistent kitten, depending on the nature of the memory.

The Parents, Poppi Jens and Gramma Tomina
(and my two older brothers before the "rest" of us arrived.)

I grew up on a hill in Connecticut. I lived next door to my Grandparents, Tomina and Jens Braaten. Next door to them lived my Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Bob, then Aunt Lynne and Uncle John's house, then Uncle Paul and Aunt Laurel. I had nine cousins to play with.
The property of the families combined consisted of mainly woods, two hundred acres or so. In the woods we had a small pond, a swampy marsh, rock cliffs and seemingly endless stone walls that furrowed the woods with ancient boundaries. This was our playground. Since the Hill was fairly isolated our parents didn't worry about "Stranger Danger", or little else for that matter. Well except the firm belief that you'll get worms if you pee on a rock or run the Hill shoeless. I pretty much disregarded both warnings. In the summer I'd bolt outside before my parents could busy me with chores. To ensure a summer void of responsibility, you needed to know Two Things: One; never say, "I'm bored" to your parents, a death knell to your freedom, and Two; make your way across the hill before the morning dew dries. If you miss that window of escape your parents will keep tabs on you the rest of the day, a horrible fate especially on "Dump Day" when Dad is loading up and sorting garbage, this being an all day affair. I labeled it "Chump" Day for only a Chump would linger at home too long on a Saturday morning. Basically I was the female version of Huck Finn. My brothers would agree. I'm not proud of my chore dodging abilities at a young age, though it took careful planning and military stealth, ironically a lot of work to avoid work. Needless to say as a mother and wife, there is no dodging now.

"The Cousins"

Watching my son play with his cousins Owen, Bjorn, Nora and Arkin on the Hill is sending me deeper into a time warp. He is learning the same principals of fun that I lived to the depths of my being. Hit the dirt early and don't look back. Already they have moved across the Hill like a massive amoeba, barefoot, filthy, hunting bugs and new game ideas. I love it. A friend of mine wrote me and said, "Don't try to recreate your childhood for your son." And she's right. I'm not trying. Its just simply unfolding in front of me as we stay here for five weeks. Noah is five and a half, and is asking me questions about my childhood. Did I play in the woods, did I get ticks, was I afraid of the dark, did I sleep in the very room he is sleeping in, all "Yes" answers and he is asking for more. I have sort of buried the Hill stories as deep as the stone walls that carve through them. Moss covered, shrouded in brambles, but still there.

This was the first story I told Noah. When I was his age, around four or five, my Father told me never to cross the stone wall behind our house. The land beyond the wall belonged to the Hibbard Sisters and I was not to trespass. I faithfully obeyed for awhile, but curiosity began to eat away at my God given conviction and I knew I had to cross that stone wall or I would surely whither up and die. I had to see what was on the other side. Like Eve in the Garden I stepped on top of the wall, and slowly jumped to the other side. It was a field as far as I could see of small Christmas trees a little bigger than I was, only in perfect rows. I had never seen anything like it. Right then and there I decided that I must have crossed into Heaven. Where else would trees grow in perfect rows? So I began to set up camp. A small fire that I thought would simply ignite itself, some walnuts perhaps, though why would I get hungry in heaven? So many questions. I wondered when Jesus would stroll through the trees to greet me, or where the angels slept. I was alone, and sooner or later Heaven's Armies would be alerted to my unexpected arrival, after all I had found the one porthole into Heaven no one knew about. Well, except my Dad apparently. Then I heard my mother calling. Excitedly I climbed back over the wall and ran to Mom to tell her the good news, "Mom! I've been to Heaven! I've been to Heaven!" Later my Mother told me my little jaunt into Heaven made her nervous. As did a few other of my imaginings. She replied, "Oh?" while slathering peanut butter and jelly together, eager to stop her little girl from further admissions of the afterlife. Noah liked this story as did his cousin Bjorn. I hope to remember more.

The "Entrance to Heaven" today...thirty years later and I still look a little guilty