Directly across from my grandmother’s house was an open well that was protected from erosion by several weathered planks that were placed there many years prior. Hanging from the haggard, wooden backboard was a heavy stainless steel dipper, dangling from a long piece of hay rope.
On extremely sunny days, that dipper beckoned us with one glistening wink, promising us the taste of clean, pure tin and ice. After several satisfying sips, we would move beyond the ancient well and into the woods, where we would explore the springy forest floor and the trees above. The white birches were my favorite and I would peel the bark carefully from the thin tree trunk, ever amazed at the golden colors and paper like texture that I would use later to write down my secrets and my dreams. In my mind, the forest was filled with unfound treasures and undiscovered bounty.
On this particular day, a wounded white birch lay on its side. At the site of the break, I could see the frayed splinters clinging desperately to the dirt; pleading for help. The slant of the tree was the ideal setup for an easy climb and descent. With little if any reluctance, I placed my right foot on the slim and battered trunk and began to “walk up” the tree’s slant; my breath caught in the confines of my chest. I spread my arms out for balance, taking each step slowly and deliberately. At last, I reached the top of the tree, which was no more than eight feet above the ground.
Finally, I had climbed a tree; not in the conventional way certainly, but an accomplishment just the same!
I rose up to my full height and with legs that were suddenly shaky, I climbed just a few more steps, my feet stepping on small branches and leaves.
Now, to get down! I began to inch my left foot downward, my arms moving in accordance with the demands of balance. Descending seemed much more difficult than ascending and my foot slipped significantly, nearly causing a fall. I regained my composure and faced reality; I was more than likely unable to glide on down to safety without a hand or a tree branch to cling to and neither was anywhere in sight. I was, as the saying goes, “Up a tree.”
I shouted for my grandmother. I screamed for Uncle Billie. I decided that simply “Help!” would do the trick but I was answered by nothing more than bird chirping and the occasional crack of a branch.
My grandmother’s intuition led her across the road, past the well, and directly to the leaning birch. She held her hand up to her face, shielding her eyes from the rays of sun that found their way through the trees.
“Can you get down?” she asked. I told her I was afraid of slipping. Always the lady, my grandmother lifted up the hem of her dress and colorful apron, and stepped up on the base of the birch tree. In off-white, flat heeled sneakers, my grandmother climbed to my side and together, we made our descent arm in arm.
I followed her back to her house, my head lowered in shame. “I’m sorry, Grammie. Do we have to tell Mom?”
“Oh, I guess not,” she said. “Now go and get a dipper full of water and I will make us some Kool-Aid.” She reached down and picked up a newspaper, carefully folding it into the shape of a fan. She stood by her front window, fanning herself and watching me as I crossed the road, filled the dipper, and carried it back to her side.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette of Connor TWP writes a weekly column entitled Northern Yarns for the Aroostook Republican newspaper in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
