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Show PAGE 24 THEZEPHYRMARCH 1990 the secret woods an early lesson in progress on Glen Meade Rd. by Jim Stiles Sometimes, In the gold light of a late summer afternoon, when the sun filters through the translucent green of an old, old tree in Just a certain way, the color and the light and the isfil of the breeze can shake loose a memory that had long ago been recorded and then stored away In some forgotten recess of the mind. Why the clear vision of a time so long ago can be brought back to the surface In such a way Is not known. But It has happened to everyone, and one day last summer, It happened to me. Sitting on my porch on Locust Lane, I was carried away to a time more than three decades ago, when I was barely five years old. My family lived In an apartment In the heart of Louisville, Kentucky. I still remember the rag man who drove his mule drawn wagon down Rosewood Boulevard, looking tor Junk to buy, and I remember the man who sold fresh fruit, also out of a horse drawn cart. I can hear him call: He practically sang the words. It was the end of an era, those years. The Rag man and the Strawberry Man, the organ grinder who stood by the farm store entrance to Sears at 8th & Broadway with his uniformed monkey they would all be gone by the end of the decade. Even then, were and they knew It. anachronisms walking they One day, my father loaded my mother, my baby brother and me Into our 1948 Ford and took us for a drive, way out Into the country. We turned off Hikes Lane a new road. On both sides of the street, onto a mud strewn gravel road homes stood in various states of construction. Two thirds of the way up the street, at what later came to called 3723 Glen Meade Road, my father showed us a big hole In the ground. This hole, he explained, would one day be the basement of our new home. None of It really sank In. I couldn't grasp the Idea that we might actually leave our home on Rosewood and go live somewhere else. Throughout the summer, we visited the house as It drew close to completion, and then one day In October, a moving van came, loaded all our furniture and deposited It In the new house. We drove right behind the van all the way, and I remember thinking how strange It was to see our living room couch lashed to the tailgate of a big truck. Our street was at the time, the prototype of the suburban explosion that lay Just ahead. But for a few months, Glen Meade Road was a solitary fringe of development In what to me appeared to be a wild and wonderful wilderness. It was, In fact, hardly a wilderness at all. But It was farm land and forest, full of mystery and excitement. I was fascinated by the sheer size of It all. Behind our house and parallel to the street, a huge wheat field yawned across half a mile of open ground. At the end of Glen Meade, "the woods Intersected the road at a right angle. But across the field, way over there, an eternity In distance, lay the Secret Woods, a forest so deep and dark and Impenetrable, we were convinced that no one had ever visited It. My friends and I stared over the fence gazing at the woods and wondering what adventure we might find In them. But, of course, we weren't ever allowed to go past the end of the block, so frustrated and oppressed, we expended as much energy as five year old boys could by digging a giant hole In the backyard my father grudgingly approved. However, digging holes can occupy a young man's attention for Just so long. Repeatedly, Steven Pottinger, and David Kotehelmer and Tlmmie Kremer and I found ourselves staring hopelessly at the distant stand of tall green trees. Sometimes, hobos walked along a dirt path that ran noxt to the back fence and parallel to the wheat. They were moving from the Southern Railroad line that crossed Six Mile Lane to the L&N line (Louisville and Nashville) that passed through Crescent Hills. Our mothers told us not to talk to them, but they always winked at us, and we were always excited when they passed by. Did they know about the woods? Had they penetrated the dark green Jungle? Rumors ran rampant that a hobo camp lay deep within the forest, and that the hobos ran naked through the woods howling at the moon. We were sure that It must be true. near-identi- cal One day Peter Caldwell climbed over the fence to watch me dig my hole was now almost three feet deep and six or seven feet across. We could actually get down In the hole and hide from our mothers when they called us for lunch. Today, however, Peter, who was three years older than me, and much taller and wiser, was not particularly Interested In my hole. He had a look of absolute triumph tattooed all over hls eight year old face. "I've been to the woods, he said smugly. "The Secret Woods?" we all exclaimed. "Well.... no," he said a bit defensively, which took some of the wind out of hls sails. And that was unfair; Peter was our hero, and the fact that he had ventured Into the woods at all left us spellbound and speechless. We all sat down In the hole while Peter dangled hls legs over the edge and told us the whole story. "I went to the woods at the end of the street," he explained. "There are trees so big you could build tree houses as big as a garage. There's bamboo thickets so thick that no one could ever get through them. And there's a swamp." "A swamp?" we cried. We looked at each other and shrugged. "What's a swamp?" Peter shook hls head sadly. It was hard for someone hls age to tolerate dumb little kids like us. But he did, and we were grateful. Besldos, I think Peter liked being a hero to a bunch of five year olds. "A swamp Is where water comes out of the ground and Just lies there, and there's green slime all over It, and who knows how deep It Is. It may not even have a bottom. And who also knows what lives In IL A couple of times I thought I saw something moving In the slime." Peter spoke almost In a whisper, glancing occasionally over hls shoulder to see If anyone was listening. He was sharing the greatest story of hls live and we were excited and happy and scared to death. "But that's not the scariest part, he continued. "When I came back through the wheat field. Guess who came after me?" t "Oh no!H we gasped. "That's right," Peter nodded grimly. "It was old lady Huntslnger and she was wearing her black dress and she had that cane." The Image sent a shudder through the group and we looked warily at the home at the other end of the field. Miss Huntslnger lived In a huge old gray brick house that must have been built before the Civil War. She stayed there all alone, was rarely visited, and always wore that black dress. When she saw us In her field, she would rush from her house and stand In the yard at th. edge of the golden wheat. But Miss Huntslnger never yelled. She Just stood there on the grass, this wilted sen A.- -1 gray figure In black, and slowly raised her cane to the sky. We thought she was putting some kind of evil curse on us, and we would run to our homes In terror and often sought refuge under our beds until either the crisis passed or dinner was ready. "So what did you do, Peter?" we asked eagerly. Peter smiled bravely, "What else could I do? I ran right past her, right through her yard and crossed Hikes Lane to the old stone barns. Then I doubled back behind the Methodist Church when I saw the coast was clear." Peter Caldwell had passed from mere hero and had transcended to the level of mythic god. We sat reverently at his feet, overwhelmed by his courage and skill. Peter soaked up the Glory, told us more stories about the woods, and then announced that he had to leave. "Don't leave, Peter," we all walled. "Why do you have to leave?" "I'm going home to watch the World Series with my dad," he said. We looked at each other. "What's a World Series?" we asked, scratching our heads. "You dumb little kids. You don't know anything .... It's baseball. You know?" He shook his head again and then climbed over the fence and was gone. The four of us sat In the hole, out of sight from ground level, and huddled together on the dlrL Steven Pottinger picked up a slick and we made a smooth place In the soil so we could draw maps and make plans for eux first Journey to the woods. (Making maps In the dirt was Imperative for serious operations such as this.) We agreed we would have to get our parents' permission, but since Peter had paved the way, we knew It would be OK. The next day, we rendezvoused at the Hole. My dad let me borrow hls old Army pack, but with the straps cinched up as far as they would go, the canvas knapsack still flapped at the becks of my knees. Tlmmie brought hls dads canteen and we all had our standard Issue peanut butter & Jelly sandwiches on while bread. Bound together by a common goal, but already scared half out of our wits, we ventured tentatively Into the Great Unknown. The first part was easy, the little dirt path stayed close to the neighbors' back yard fences, and we knew we could safely escape at any time should the need arise. But finally we ran out of backyards and came face to face with the biggest, darkest, moat ominous place we had ever experienced In our 5 12 years of life. The sun could barely penetrate the foliage of the tallest trees. The trunk of one big oak was so massive, that the four of us together, arms linked, could not reach around It. Grape vines grew In the trees and some were swinging freely In the breeze. Tlmmie grabbed the vine and swung wildly through the air, doing hls soprano version of Johnnie Welsmlller's Tarzan. Someone had been here before, because a narrow dirt path wandered through the trees and vines and cane breaks and poison Ivy until It petered out near the point where the woods Joined the Secret Woods. It was all too good to be true. Why there was more to explore here than we had dreamed possible. This would be the training ground for the day we ventured across the wheat field to the grandest forest of them alL We ate our peanut butter sandwiches and Tlmmie passed the canteen. Steven always got backwash slobber In the water when he drank and we all yelled at him for getting peanut butter floatles In the canteen. But even that couldn't spoil this glorious sunlit day. Wo cut across a small field, through the weeds and came toward another cluster of trees. It was the swamp. It was Just as horribly wonderful as Peter had described. Old logs and bottles floated on a sea of green scum and slime. The air smelled foul and heavy. Sometimes bubbles gurgled up from below and broke through the algae. We speculated on the source. "I bet snakes live In there, said David. "Yeah," agreed Steven, "probably big cottonmouths. My dad told me about them. One time this boy went swimming In hls pond, and all of a sudden he Just got pulled under the water and disappeared. We all grimaced at the thought of it. "When they found hls body," he continued, "there were fifty cottonmouths still clinging to It with their fangs." M 4ilH( liilti |