Every child should have a secret place. Mine was the cedar bog just south of the field coming away from the swamp. The cedar bog fed my child soul. I went to the bog to feel alone. I went when six siblings and a screaming mother got the best of me. I went when it rained. I went to feel safe. I went to put my hands in the cool spring water as it came up out of the ground beneath the great cedar tree.
That old cedar tree’s roots hooped up out of the ground creating a little cave just big enough for a small girl. In my little cave the world was mine. Blue robin’s egg shells fit into one another and sat in a little notch on the rough wall. A bird’s nest, stones, a broken arrowhead, acorn people and abandon snail shells kept me company. Right next to my tree cave was a tiny spring. The spring and the tree were the true pieces in my eight year old life that belonged to only me.
I remember slipping out the back door to run across the field away from my mother’s voice calling me to come back… but I was already away.
In spring the bog ran little rivelets and streams. The ground was soft and would suck my boot right off my foot. Then I would pull it out filled with earthy smelling water, dump it out and rest it next to a tree with its mate while I waded in the cold boggy mud. It would suck me in up past my ankles halfway to my knees. Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I didn’t pull out in time . . .
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