Neighborhood

In my neighborhood, my house sits atop a rolling, grassy hill with a country road in front and a simple rusted wire fence to hold back the woods encompassing the back and right side yard. When I was younger, the old fence was more than a rust encrusted relic left behind to separate the usable land from the woods. The fence was a gateway of sorts protecting my cleanly mowed yard from the overgrown darkness on the other side. Often I would play along the aging fence, imagining that the old guardian may stumble at any time against the force of the underbrush, releasing the weeds and vines of the forest to swallow my quiet home. On other days, while pondering the extent of the woods before me, the fence would manifest in me a feeling of confinement as I peered through its small, woven wire windows, restricting my exploration of the wilderness.

As I grew older and strong enough to climb over the fence, I would routinely take adventures in the woods and follow a path which led to one of my favorite hideouts, a civil war era homestead. Long before my family lived on our property on the other side of the hill, this old house had been a modest two-story home to another family, but through its survival of time, it became something special, at least to me.

At the end of the path, through breaks in the brush, I could see some parts of the house, but only upon reaching the edge of the old property was the full disarray of the homestead made apparent. The woods were slowly reclaiming the lawn surrounding the house.  Thistle and weeds replaced the grass; briars and poison ivy grew freely throughout the yard. Abandonment presented itself in the external appearance of the house. Vines, spreading from the ground up to the siding and from the treetops to the old tin roof, became the new decorative woodwork; ragweed blocked the view of the windows, creating natural storm shutters. The homestead’s faded wooden siding revealed a record of history to anyone curious enough to look.. Craters, inflicted by Civil War musket balls, testified to the fact that the house had provided protection for either soldiers or a family who made their stand against an oncoming army. Architecture inside the house preserved the ingenuity of the time: front and back doors, when opened, allowed a cooling breeze to flow through the house; old newspaper plastered to the oak plank walls offered cheap insulation; a low ceiling made efficient the heating of the house; a steep staircase to the second floor saved valuable space. The first floor consisted of a main room containing a fireplace, a heavy stone block where an iron stove once sat, and the staircase whose deterioration hindered my exploration of the second floor.

Beyond the old homestead lay the pristine wilderness. As I explored, weaving through the fallen trees, climbing over rocks and hills, walking across flat clearings, then resting on the musty dirt, I noticed everything around me. Songbirds chattered, squirrels ran across logs, and rabbits dashed into thickets upon realization of my presence. Bubbling streams trickled from the rocky mountainside, traveled downhill, and disappeared into one of the many sinkholes. Oak, Walnut, Spruce, and the occasional Dogwood waved their leafy branches at me. I would continue my journey, climbing up a steep hillside and walking along its ridge, until coming upon a fence separating the woods from another backyard—signaling the end of my adventure and beginning of my return home.