Weekly Scribblings -- A Boyhood Place
The Tree
The tree stood proudly out behind the house
Ropes hung from the bows, had tires attached
Homemade swings were made by the larger boys
Later in life my tree house, way up high
If you had the password you could come up
Up and read or tell stories with the kids
Passing time and abandonment ruins
Ruins all the pleasures of childhood toys
Tree houses and swings left to rot decay
They're not safe to swing or to climb up high
And then when everyone has moved to town
Or passed away the country place is sold
The new owner cares not and doesn't know
childhood play memories he doesn't have
The now old tree is bulldozed to his pile
And on a windless day it's all set fire
Note: This is the house I was born in and lived in until I left for college. It had two bedrooms upstairs and a kitchen and a living room down. My parents and my little sister slept in the bedrooms, I slept in a screened in front porch, it had three enclosed porches. None of the porches were heated and they got pretty cold in the winters. There was a tree my sister and I played in, I did make a tree house when I was old enough to be able.
After my dad and mom had died we sold the house to a fellow who had other farms too. Our Nebraska farm was small, it only had 120 acres, and the man bought it for his son. The son and his wife lived in town, they bulldozed the old house, late 1800's vintage, and most of the trees. The barns were kept.
_ _ _
- Poem and Photo Copyright, Jimmiehov 2021 and 2007, All Rights Reserved
- I am linked with Rommy for my response to her prompt about trees at Weekly Scribbles #63, https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2021/03/weekly-scribblings-63-trees.html
Labels: Children, Fiction, prose poem, Story Poem, Trees, Weekly Scribbling 21
posted by Jim @ 3/31/2021 12:30:00 AM
15 comments
15 Comments:
Ah, those childhood memories! I didn't grow up on a farm, but it was still a shock many years later to revisit the home where I spent my first 12 years and find that the big back yard with trees and a swing had long gone, a Paradise literally sold and paved to become a parking lot.
We, my family, have permission to drive in and visit the old place. It's seven miles from the nearest town, with a population of less than 200.
Thank you for reminding me of the "Pink Paradise", a.k.a. "Put up a parking lot" and/or "Big Yellow Taxi" song.
..
Childhood memories connected with trees – I have them too, Jim. I wonder if the children of the twenty-first century will have similar memories when they grow old, or will it just be of mobile phones and computer game? Rope swings, tree houses and climbing our favourite trees – there was always a special one. We had one we called the cathedral because it had branches like steps and was a dream to climb. The final line of your poem made me sad.
The days of old were best for children to explore and enjoy themselves as more fun was available them with virtually no electronic devices available to keep you home.
Too many trees come to a sad end because no one understands them as a child does. To a kid, a tree is a friend. Love the way you put this homage to trees together, Jim. Thank you.
Sad ending to a tree with such character.
This is a beautiful prose poem and a sad one as well.
I always wished I had a treehouse as a kid. You are so lucky to have had one.
A lovely taste of nostalgia Jim. Happy Wednesday
much love...
I hate when this happens. I'm living in our parents' house now, and my brother's childhood friend is holding tight to the woods where we had the tree fort.
Sadly brings back memories of what happened to our trees the "new owners" cut down. From stately maples our grandpa planted to the prickly pear we lived in as children. It makes it worse when the "new" owner is member of your family.
How sad to see. But, lovely memories are left
Seems familiar, Jim. My childhood home is gone and only one tree left that my dad planted before I was born. Something sad about that and I understand.
Your story made me so sad, Jim. It's the story of so many of the tidy little farms of my childhood. How anyone can carelessly bulldoze trees that have stood for hundreds of years is beyond me.
Childhood memories are precious and to look at the same place in different condition is shattering. You have well expressed the same in the poetry.
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