The Field
By nearside
- 811 reads
In each and every childhood, there is a field. It might be a great
rolling meadow, or a small patch of green in the middle of a city.
There may not even be that much grass- you've seen the burnt-out cars
in the middle of a pile of rubble. If you look closely enough, you'll
see the grass poking it's head through the bricks and stone. That's
field enough for me. The point is, we all have these places, deep
within our memories. You may not remember. I do.
My field was at the bottom of my street. I lived in a col-de-sac at the
edge of town and country. I say country, but it was a farm surrounded
by roads on the outskirts of Belfast. If you went past the farm you
were in the city. Back the other way, and you were in Newtownabbey. But
there, at the edge, we were far from urban intrusion. Back in those
troubled days, even the bombs were distant thunder. The zoo was nearby,
far up Cave Hill. At night, in the summer, you could hear the lions
roaring, like some savannah dream. It was just one of the things that
made childhood special.
The summer was the best time. School was just a bad memory the second
we got out the door. Then there was just us, the two month respite, and
the field.
It rolled over a hill so that we could see one side from the other. The
side nearest my house (and I was doubly blessed- my garden opened onto
the Field) was slightly higher that the far side, which swept down into
a river, surrounded by trees. The field, cowpats aside, was like a
great green ocean, dividing our land from the unknown.
It was unknown for about an hour. We soon crossed the field in a brave
expedition, and made the distant land ours. It had paths that were only
known to children and cats, and we walked them almost every day. The
river was a great compromise- it was quick and noisy, appealing to our
sense of hearing and adventure, yet tame enough to be safe. It wasn't
long before the rope swings went up, a matter of some territorial
disputes over the years as it turned out. The gangs came and went and
only the field with it's secret Eden remained.
We were Rangers, traveling far and wide. Imagination helped, and the
Field and river were the scenes for many epic war stories and science
fiction tales.
The summer seemed endless, yet school always returned. In the autumn,
the Field remained ours, and somehow those evenings seemed warmer and
longer. The Field changed color from green to gold, capturing the
sunlight and keeping it captive for a while. As I grew older, the field
remained constant. My childhood slipped into adolescence, and the Field
became a place for meditation, for thought and consideration. As new
priorities took hold of my youthful mind, I was glad for a quiet
place.
Then, suddenly, I moved far away from there. My family and I moved into
the countryside, but ironically took up residence in the middle of a
small town. I was further away now from the country than I had been on
the outskirts of Belfast. I have never returned to my old house, or the
Field, though I have dreamt of both many times. In those dreams, they
remain the same, and I can still go wandering there, if I have a mind
to.
The importance of the Field, a game-board on which our childhood is
played out, is this- we all have one. There is somewhere unique in each
of our childhoods where we were happy.
If we can remember them, remember where we put them, and perhaps share
them with the ones we play with today, might our lives be richer?
My Field remains, still on the outside of town. I've asked about it,
and it has remained green.
Children still play there. I envy them.
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