Showcase-Sunday: The silent witness

The imagination is an amazing thing; It can take us anywhere we've been, or want to be, to places, emotions and feelings. An imagination can bring us an escape or safe emotional place to retreat into; It can transport us away from the reality of our daily lives, provide focus, inspiration and creativity. Of course, it can also work against us at times.

As a kid I had a very active imagination and had the ability to stretch it fortunately. I grew up in a small country town and lived with my parents and grandparents [mum's side] on a very large piece of land. It gave my brothers and I the ability to explore our imaginations, act them out and enabled a lot of creativity and freedom of expression.

Whether we were motorcycle cops patrolling the "streets" (riding our BMX bikes around), SAS operators on a covert mission behind enemy lines, or Celts assaulting a Roman outpost our imaginations were constant companions and drove us to ever-more creative thoughts, and adventures.

Of course, like with most young lads, our over-active and creative imaginations would get us into trouble - I'd like to say occasionally, but regularly is probably a more apt word. We’d take our punishment though, take responsibility for our actions. Sometimes punishment took the form of self-inflicted pain and humiliation, which seemed equally balanced with parent-administered corrective measures. It is difficult to recall which was preferred but we'd take it, then move on and start all over again...Until the next time. [Photo: Johannes Plenio on Unsplash]

Our grandfather worked with wood, crafting some of the most amazing things from utilitarian furniture, to ornate and intricately carved clocks and mirror frames and furniture items. He had a well-equipped workshop - A bonus for us kids and a location from which many of our adventures took shape.

We would fashion our equipment and props, if not with great skill, certainly with great imagination and focus. We lovingly, and with reasonable acceptable skill, as taught by grandad, created all sorts of paraphernalia to incorporate into our adventures. My grandad, [on mum's side] was a champ; I’ll post about him someday.

We made rifles, pistols, broadswords, daggers, BMX ramps, wooden boats, model planes, cricket bats, tree houses, spears, crossbows…I’ve got a good crossbow story I'll have to share someday..One in which I earned myself a great thrashing… So funny now…Wasn’t back then. So, not only were we able to explore our imagination, we were learning to craft things, to take instruction, follow discipline, and take responsibility. They were good times and I credit them for crafting me in turn; The man I became, and am now.

One of the most well-used props we had though was alive: A tree. Yes, a simple tree. It was a good tree, strong of branch, leafy, a solid and sturdy trunk - Just a tree, but one that held out its leafy branches in a welcoming, come play with me way.

The branches spread outwards from the trunk, low and wide and were strong enough to support us and our boyish endeavours to reach the very top. It was about ten to metres in diameter and probably around 20m at its highest point, give or take some. The leaves would fall in winter leaving a blanket of fallen foliage to rustle about in and were thick, waxy and richly green in spring and summer. It was a spectacular tree, and one in which many memories were made playing with my brothers and our friends. I wish I knew what sort of tree it was, I mean it’s true botanical name, but I don’t. That doesn't mean it did't have a name though. We called it The fat hen tree. I don’t know why it was called that, it just was. Don't ask why - We were kids and didn't need a reason for most things.

That tree formed homebase of many of our adventures. It was Police HQ, our pirate ship from which we plundered the seas plying our piratey trade, our Alamo, Medieval castle, our Roman hill fort, our hospital, war room, snipers hide, POW camp and pretty much the main prop around which our imaginations would build most of our adventures.

It was also a place I could go when I wanted to be alone: To read, when I was mad or unhappy or when I simply needed to separate myself from the rest of the world. I found it comforting; Its boughs would envelope me, dependable in their ability to hold me securely and its leaves were easily thick enough to hold the world out, to hide me when I needed to be hidden. Many after-school-evenings were spent there crying and raging in equal measure at some cruel treatment, taunt or racial remark I'd suffered that that day. It was there I would rebuild myself, in solitude.

The fat hen tree watched me grow up. It didn't witness my very first steps but it knew me from an infant and stood with me throughout so many good and bad moments: Learning to ride a bike, kick a football and bowl a cricket ball, throw a frisbee. It also witnessed the crossbow incident but it had my back and never compromised my integrity. It watched silently as a boy came to terms with racism, being different. It's branches supported me as I delved deeply into my books, hid me when I didn’t want to be found and of course provided a stage for my brothers and I to live out our imaginations. The fat hen tree stood there, a mute witness to the unfolding of our young lives, silent but for the occasional creak or groan of a branch. I can't help but think of it as an integral part of my formative years and as a much loved companion.

It’s gone now though. I recall the first time I realised it had been removed and it saddened me.

The property was sold to new owners and the tree was removed. It makes me sad. Did they not know they were cutting down one of my most beloved childhood companions? I can only think that had they known they would not have cut it. But it's gone now and to be honest I am thankful I was not there at the end, although my friend, the tree, deserved more than to end its days without me.

Writing this has sparked memories from long ago; Memories of my youth, my home, grandparents and mother who are no longer with us. It brings happy memories like the births of my younger siblings, lazy summer days that held nothing but the promise that anything seemed possible. It brings memories of eating watermelon on the front porch, sticky juice running down face and arms, of wintery nights by the fire, rolling thunder and flashes of lightening outside as we played board games, drew or played Lego's or with our much-loved Scalextric cars.

Memories aren't always good though and there was plenty of adversity and challenge in life. We made it through somehow and throughout it all was the fat hen tree, a stoic and stalwart companion; Loyal, welcoming and dependable. It stood witness to much of my families' journey. Indeed it watched my own parents' wedding in the garden years before I was born. It kept watch on us all, but nothing remains constant and all things die.

I'm glad I was not there in the end, I think I would have cried. The fat hen tree isn’t where it once was, half way up the long driveway, standing by to wave good bye as we left, a familiar presence when we returned. It's gone, but I take it everywhere I go still, in memories of simple days gone by, and never-forgotten moments of my life.

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Design and create your ideal life, don't live it by default

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You can find the original 797-word post here, written and posted by me on 18th December 2017. This post comprises 1384 words and has been reworked and reposted for the @nonameslefttouse #showcase-sunday concept. See the intro post here. I suggest you read it as he set some guidelines and a simple copy-paste of an old post is probably not legit.