I Remember Places

“There are places I remember 

in my life, though some have changed 

Some forever not for better 

Some have gone and some remain.”

John Lennon

There are places that I remember in clear detail.  In my life, hardly any places remain as they were. However, I can call them up from the files in my brain and magically transport myself to them as they existed before. My mother re-entered the workforce when I was about ten years old. I had lots of time to explore and roam free, by myself. We lived in Charlotte on a street of small cottages between Eastover and Cotswold. These neighborhoods were divided by, Briar Creek, one of Charlotte’s main waterways. On our side of Briar Creek, there was a pocket of woods with trails, a tributary creek, four small lakes, and a real waterfall.

I spent countless hours exploring every inch of these woods without supervision. I could never become bored in these woods. There were always things to do. I could build little boats made of twigs and send them sailing down the creek. Would my small vessels make it past the boulders, through the rapids, to land safely in a large and calm pool that beavers had created by building a dam? It was a perilous journey for a boat made of twigs. Some made it, some did not.

I look back on the woods now with reverence. For me, it is a sacred place. It may not exist now as it did then, but it remains the same in my mind. I can go back anytime I want and traverse the trails that my feet took so many steps along. I can close my eyes and step into the Morrison’s yard where I would cut across to make my way to the foot of the waterfall. In my mind, I can hear the water spilling over the concrete dam and crashing over the rocks that have been unearthed by the current. I can visualize the old split rail fence that had collapsed in places making it easy to cross into the woods. 

There was an easy spot to rock-hop across the creek to get to the main part of the woods. This was where the trail began. Then it went up a steep hill beside the waterfall, past the first lake which was created by the dam. This is where the trail turned back in the opposite direction and leveled off. From there I made my way to the second lake; an old, abandoned rock quarry. There were two huge boulders that served as a kind of overlook. Sometimes, I might just sit there for a while. If the water was clear, you could sometimes spot an old cart that was used to haul rocks deep beneath the surface. A little further down the trail was a spot known as “Skipper’s Island.” This is where the older kids would hang out when they skipped school, hence the name. Skipper’s Island was really a peninsula that jutted out into the third lake, which was more of a wetland than a lake. It was not deep, and the ground was always soggy around it. Neither the rock quarry nor the lake at Skipper’s Island were connected to the creek.

From Skippers Island, I could backtrack down the trail which then continued to follow the bends in the creek. This part of the trail was high above the creek. The water had cut deep into the earth creating two opposing red-clay walled cliffs. From the trail, you could look over the cliff's edge and see the deep pool built by  beavers.  The water was green and murky. I once saw some sort of giant lizard leap from the top of the cliff and land right in the pool. No one believed me when I told them about it.

Moving along, the trail made its way down a slope and through a wide gulley. The gulley opened to an old wood and rope bridge that connected back to the other edge of the Morrisons yard. Sometimes I might cross the bridge and head back home. Sometimes I would continue following the creek. The trail was not as reliable the rest of the way, but it was easy rock hopping once I was this far downstream of the waterfall. Near the bridge was an area called, “Sand Circle.” A sandy spot encircled by trees that had fallen during a tornado that touched down there. The sand was yellow and flecked with shiny mica. There were freshwater clam shells everywhere. I liked to dig through the sand to find large pieces of mica. For me, it was like finding gold.

At this point, the creek was shallow enough to ford. Once on the opposite side of the creek, the trail was narrow and uneven. This was where I was most likely to slip and would end up getting soaked in creek water. But the last leg of the trail was worth the risk. As I rounded the last bend, lake number four would come into view. It was the largest lake. The trail side of the lake was wooded. The other side was not. There was a large and lush lawn that gently sloped upwards to a stately two-story brick home. To me, it was a mansion. There were mansions on the trail side as well, but they were hidden by the dense woods. I would make my way along the shoreline, wondering what would happen if someone saw me. Would they yell at me to get off their property? No one ever saw me though.

Stonebridge was the final stop and it was at the far end of the lake. Just in front of the bridge was a dam built from stones that matched the bridge. The water did not cascade over this dam like the one at the waterfall. Instead, it trickled out of old pipes that jutted out of the dam. The bridge crossed over the creek and was adjacent to the dam. I would make my way across the road and down the embankment to stand under the bridge. In my memory, it was always cooler under that bridge than anywhere else. I felt safe there. I felt safe in the these woods. I can’t imagine my childhood without them. 

I usually followed Stonebridge Lane back to Vernon Drive. It was an easy walk from there to our cottage on Providence Drive. Remnants of the woods remain, but most of my woods are gone. For some people, the woods were just an opportunity for development and profit. For me, they were so much more. The woods were my refuge. The time I spent in the woods gave me confidence to be self-reliant. 

The woods were my friend.

There are places we remember. I remember the woods.