“Come on, Liss. Let’s go for a hike,” says my dad as he straps on his tennis shoes. I look up from dressing my Barbie doll and instantly drop her. I scurry to find my light-up boots to go to
Recommended for you
When we arrive at the gate, he flashes his membership card like it’s the key to another world. He parks his car in the small, gravel parking lot among the trees. Immediately, I unbuckle my car seat and throw open the door, letting the sweet scent of grass mingle with the thick, spicy, earthy scent of pine cones tickle my nose. Excitement inflates me, replacing the oxygen with some helium-like substance that makes me feel like I can fly. I love this park.
Years ago when my dad took me as a little girl to the park, he would explain how the fungus plates, or brackets, growing out of trees were actually fairies’ patios and how trees with multiple fungus brackets climbing up the trunk were hotels with balconies. We meandered along the trails for miles, or at least it felt that way to my short legs. We pointed out leaves in the water, which were faeries’ canoes, and examined footprints in the mud or snow. That’s a deer. That’s a dog. That’s a gnome.
Over elementary school summers, I went to
We were quiet as the water lapped and sloshed against the dock and the calm breeze sifted around us. I remembered the times I spent at the park attending festivals and visiting the
After wrestling the fish out of the water and snapping a picture, guilt ripped the excitement out of me. My friend tried to convince me fish can’t feel pain, but I still don’t believe her. After we released the fish and it flopped along, swimming at a sideways angle, I decided to put away my pole and just put my feet in the water instead. I felt like I insulted nature when it had always welcomed me. I dipped my toes into the lukewarm water and tried to forget about the fish’s inevitable death.
Last summer, some friends and I visited the wonderful place again. This time, we had adventure in mind. So, reeking of sweet, fruity sunscreen, we jogged down to the boathouse and got fitted for life jackets and paddles. We pushed our borrowed kayaks into the water, scraping against the pebbles, and set out across the glassy lake. The current worked against us in the middle of the lake, giving our triceps and biceps a workout. At the far end of the lake, we visited the cove where the yellow-green lily pads grew; some even wore blushing white lilies with sharp petals. Baby painted turtles tread water among the pads and vines and we listened to an eagle trilling in the distance.
We held our paddles on our laps and just floated along the shore, basking in the sunlight and listening to the various chirps, croaks, and splashes and wrinkling our noses at the occasional putrid scent of a rotting animal not yet found by the vultures circling overhead.
Unfortunately, our trip was cut short when I remembered I was scheduled to work and desperately needed a shower. As we pulled our kayaks ashore, I longed for the days when time was imaginary and I could linger in the park for hours on end. But, even though Piney Run remains the same, life beyond its gates pushes forward.
This past winter break, there was an uncharacteristically warm, sixty degree, January day. It was like the park was calling me back. I opened the door to the basement where my dad was working in his office.
“Dad, let’s go to the park,” I yelled down the stairs. It took a little convincing, but soon I had my Dad strapping on his shoes and in the car. We were park-bound for the first time in several years. Fifteen minutes later, we rolled up to the front gate, but it was locked. We should have anticipated the park being closed for the winter. Still, several other cars had parked along the road leading up to the gate, so we followed suit. Once inside the park, we ventured into the woods. The whole time, I mentally picked out the toadstools and fungus brackets, still wondering if fairies really did use them. Finally, my dad gestured to a tree we would have named a fairy hotel and said, “I wonder if the faeries are home.” I smiled. Again, I realized some things never change. We continued down the path, talking about college, my ideas for careers and plans to get me there, but even as we crunched fallen leaves, I felt as though the same fairies from my youth were peering from beneath the ferns and down from the tree branches. They would never leave their emerald realm and I would never abandon them, no matter what changed beyond the lake and trees.
