Dandelion Days

As a child, I loved to wander in the woods behind our home. There were winding trails and a quiet pond tucked away beneath tall trees. When I walked there, I felt as though I were miles away from anyone else in the world. The peaceful stillness of nature was comforting to my soul, like a warm hug from the earth itself.

Every Saturday morning, my brother and I would jump out of bed as soon as the sun came up, eager to start another adventure. Our imaginations could take us anywhere—from Cowboy and Indian days, wild jungles, or hidden treasure islands—all without leaving our backyard.

Some days we’d stretch out in the green grass, searching for four-leaf clovers that we were sure would bring us good luck and picking dandelions to hold under each others chin to see who had the most butter (LOL, whatever - that meant.) Other times, we just laid there staring up at the sky, watching fluffy clouds drift by. We’d point and laugh, finding ones that looked like animals or funny shapes. Before long, the clouds would change and our discoveries would disappear just as quickly as we had noticed them.

Most days, we spent hours riding our bikes around the yard—speeding around the house, racing down by the barn, or pedaling out to the pasture near the woods. Out in that pasture stood a massive old tree with thick, strong branches. It was our favorite place in the whole world. We climbed it as if it were our fortress, perched up high where we could see the whole yard below. Up there, we played make-believe, shared secrets, and talked about everything that crossed our young minds.

Of course, not every adventure kept us out of trouble. One day, we must have done something truly awful—though I can’t remember what it was now—because Mama came after us with a belt or maybe a switch. (I can’t quite recall which, just that it meant business.) We took off running as fast as our little legs could carry us, laughing and screaming as she chased us all the way out back and down into the pasture.

My brother, always looking out for me, helped me up the tree first. He yelled, “Climb faster!” while pushing at me to hurry. I think he had already caught a sting or two from the belt because he was extra motivated to climb faster. We climbed higher and higher until Mama couldn’t reach us anymore. From our safe perch, we watched her stand below, catching her breath.

“You have to come down at some point!” she warned, shaking the belt for emphasis. But then she turned and stomped back toward the house, no doubt needing a break from our mischief.

My brother and I exchanged a look and nodded in perfect agreement: she would forget all about being mad once she calmed down. So we stayed up in that tree for the longest time—talking, giggling, and watching the world from above—until we were absolutely sure the danger had passed.

Sure enough, by suppertime, Mama called us in as if nothing had ever happened. And forget she did. We slid into our chairs with straight faces, trying not to smile too big at the success of our daring escape.

Those days were simple, wild, and full of wonder—the kind of childhood magic that sticks with you forever.