Slow…Children
Spring Valley Tree Farm’s driveway was a hub for teenage angst and inexperienced drag-racers. Truth be told, the well beaten mixture of gravel and dirt suffered a great many tales of recklace teenager driving spells and careless farm girls and boys. As former youth pastors, my parents’ hearts of gold attracted many of whom they ended up mentoring or taking in. However, with two little girls who aimlessly ventured outside for exploration and discovery, the need for a “slow-down!” sign was apparent. My father, with good intentions, bless his heart, put up an old, rusty sign labeled “Slow…Children” with the usual short character of a child strolling along on a yellow background. It was not until a few years later that I realized the offensive implications of that sign to both my sister and me. Needless to say, the sign is no longer standing alongside that well beaten mixture of gravel and dirt.
Barbie Money
During the early years of tree farming, my parents worked tirelessly (and still do) to provide for their little girls. In the summer, my mother and father would shear the Christmas trees with long “Last of the Mohican” knives. Although my parents wore tall boots to protect their sweaty, rubber-friction abused legs, shearing usually involved bouts of wild parsnip and poison ivy allergic reactions. To this day my father’s legs bear the harsh scars after many summers surviving the nasty weeds. After shearing season, early fall, my father would wake up at the crack of dawn to spray the trees. He would come back with a green four-wheeler, green face, green hair, and green clothes. What I remember most, however, were the green hairs peeking out from his nose. To me, those hairs represented more than just neglect of one’s appearance, but rather the selflessness my father displayed through working until his hands cracked and bled and nose hairs were green as the trees he sprayed. He was working for “Barbie Money”, as he liked to call it. When my sister and I would ask Dad where he was going or why he couldn’t stay home and play with us that day, he would reply, “Because I have to work to get Barbie money.” That put things into perspective for a three and six year old.
Worms
My little sister loved rain because rain meant 1. Mud and 2. Worms. Worms meant an opportunity to drive her(me) sister mad by chasing her across the driveway flinging dangly, wiggly worms onto her hair, clothes, and bare, white freckled skin. I still shiver thinking about the white plastic bucket my own flesh and blood joyfully carried around humming to herself and spouting off cries of delight each time a new worm caught her curious eyes. My sister also enjoyed catching insects with her net. One summer, for a 4-H project, she put together an organized display of insects she caught on a piece of white Styrofoam. As innocent and sweet this may sound, the insects did not experience a quiet and peaceful death. With a large needle, she would stab the bug with the sharp, miniscule point and watch them silently struggle to retrieve freedom from the large metallic pin-head blocking their view from the rest of the world. Even the big adoring blue eyes staring at them in delight were out of their sight. I never caught on to this “Girl of the Limberlost” behavior, but sometimes, when I have a moment to catch sight of my feelings and wishes, I miss that innocent Limberlost girl who spent her childhood curious about nature’s tiniest inhabitants instead of playing with a Wii, Ipod, or Gameboy. She was freshing, that Limberlost girl.
Spring Valley Tree Farm’s driveway was a hub for teenage angst and inexperienced drag-racers. Truth be told, the well beaten mixture of gravel and dirt suffered a great many tales of recklace teenager driving spells and careless farm girls and boys. As former youth pastors, my parents’ hearts of gold attracted many of whom they ended up mentoring or taking in. However, with two little girls who aimlessly ventured outside for exploration and discovery, the need for a “slow-down!” sign was apparent. My father, with good intentions, bless his heart, put up an old, rusty sign labeled “Slow…Children” with the usual short character of a child strolling along on a yellow background. It was not until a few years later that I realized the offensive implications of that sign to both my sister and me. Needless to say, the sign is no longer standing alongside that well beaten mixture of gravel and dirt.
Barbie Money
During the early years of tree farming, my parents worked tirelessly (and still do) to provide for their little girls. In the summer, my mother and father would shear the Christmas trees with long “Last of the Mohican” knives. Although my parents wore tall boots to protect their sweaty, rubber-friction abused legs, shearing usually involved bouts of wild parsnip and poison ivy allergic reactions. To this day my father’s legs bear the harsh scars after many summers surviving the nasty weeds. After shearing season, early fall, my father would wake up at the crack of dawn to spray the trees. He would come back with a green four-wheeler, green face, green hair, and green clothes. What I remember most, however, were the green hairs peeking out from his nose. To me, those hairs represented more than just neglect of one’s appearance, but rather the selflessness my father displayed through working until his hands cracked and bled and nose hairs were green as the trees he sprayed. He was working for “Barbie Money”, as he liked to call it. When my sister and I would ask Dad where he was going or why he couldn’t stay home and play with us that day, he would reply, “Because I have to work to get Barbie money.” That put things into perspective for a three and six year old.
Worms
My little sister loved rain because rain meant 1. Mud and 2. Worms. Worms meant an opportunity to drive her(me) sister mad by chasing her across the driveway flinging dangly, wiggly worms onto her hair, clothes, and bare, white freckled skin. I still shiver thinking about the white plastic bucket my own flesh and blood joyfully carried around humming to herself and spouting off cries of delight each time a new worm caught her curious eyes. My sister also enjoyed catching insects with her net. One summer, for a 4-H project, she put together an organized display of insects she caught on a piece of white Styrofoam. As innocent and sweet this may sound, the insects did not experience a quiet and peaceful death. With a large needle, she would stab the bug with the sharp, miniscule point and watch them silently struggle to retrieve freedom from the large metallic pin-head blocking their view from the rest of the world. Even the big adoring blue eyes staring at them in delight were out of their sight. I never caught on to this “Girl of the Limberlost” behavior, but sometimes, when I have a moment to catch sight of my feelings and wishes, I miss that innocent Limberlost girl who spent her childhood curious about nature’s tiniest inhabitants instead of playing with a Wii, Ipod, or Gameboy. She was freshing, that Limberlost girl.
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