Aselin

This spring I returned to my childhood home with my family. Returning to the place of my formative years always brings on a session of introspection. On my father’s property is a magnificent oak tree. It’s branches fan out making it a perfect climbing tree. It towers over there pasture in which it stands, and its canopy spans at least 25 yards. It’s a spectacular specimen.

Strolling around the rural property the spring grass was growing tall and I felt the fresh coolness as the blades brushed my calves. I meandered down to the shade of the tree. As a child I spent lots of time in this field. When the grass grew tall enough I would press trails and rooms into the the blades like a life size ant farm. I would spend hours in my little lair reading, catching ladybugs and assembling hook rugs.

I know, it explains a lot.

Still hanging on the tree, from years ago is a yellow nylon rope that used to suspend a plastic tire. The tire lays on the ground nearby. It’s not in good shape, from the last time I played on it. Yet it still hangs there, somewhat ominously.

When I was about 10 years old, my neighbor Nicole and I were climbing the tree and swinging on the swing. We took turns winding the tire and then playing with the centrifugal force as the rider would extend and then pull her arms in adjusting the spin rate. It was great fun.

I was winding Nicole on what was destined to be the most spectacular ride of the afternoon. Nicole suggested that I had wound enough, and I kept telling her how fantastic it was going to be.

Suddenly there was a weird creak and then a loud bang as one of the sections of the nylon rope passed its torque limit and unraveled. It would have been of little consequence except it took with it a chunk of Nicole’s scalp ripping out her hair and leaving the worst rope burn imaginable on her face.

In ten year old panicked horror I simultaneously moved to help her while mentally springing into C.M.A. mode. I told her I was going to the house to get first aid supplies, and that when she went home she should tell her parents she fell off her bike. As I ran toward the house I started to cry.

When I returned, Nicole was gone. I sat under the oak tree for a very long time, alternating crying and dry heaving. I kept staring at the tuft of hair intertwined with the frayed ends of the rope. It was the most awful thing I had experienced and I didn’t know what to do.

One would think this kind of thing only happens to children. Unfortunately more than once in my life since then I’ve planned something spectacular only to have it blow up, usually in someone’s face.

There is much wisdom in slowing down. In listening to someone you disagree with, and just taking a little bit at a time.

Smaller rides can be fun, and while Nicole eventually forgave me, or at least started talking to me again, I still sicken at the fact that I just wouldn’t listen. That fact has left deeper scars on me than were ever on her.