When I Grow Up, I Want to Be a Tree

The truth is … we totally got lost. We started off with the intention to visit the trails inside the Georgetown-Rowley State Forest, but we ended up in a place called Camp Denison, which is 36 acres of conservation land (formerly an inner-city youth campground) within the Baldpate Pond State Forest in Georgetown, Mass.

I’m so glad it found us.

I was able to tuck the car away just past a crooked sign that read “Additional Parking,” though no other cars were to be found. We were under the canopy of forest, complete with cloud-tickling trees, an endless bed of low-lying, bright green ground cover, and quiet. Pure, delicious absence of sound.

It was half-past eleven and the kids had started to lose steam on the drive from Newburyport so I wasn’t sure what to expect at first. But, as soon as their feet hit the wide rocky path, Henry and Sadie both came alive. Sadie looked up with a smile at the tops of the trees and pointed at something only she could see, and I knew if she’d had the words, they would have been: “Let’s do this thing.”

I’m not sure if it’s the oxygen, or the sense of freedom that comes with being in a new, wide open natural space, but this turnaround in them is something I’ve witnessed time and again over the past month whenever the kids collide with the woods. 

Where we stopped inside Baldpate was all forest aside from a couple of trail markers and a posted trail map, hand-drawn in Crayola marker, under a piece of nailed down plastic (that had also trapped a few bugs, sorry to say), but I hope to return someday soon and visit the stomping grounds of the old camp and lodge. For today, however, we had our hearts set on a little hike.

I read that most of the forest inside Camp Denison is “a mixture of mature white pine, oak, maple, hickory, locust and other commonly occurring hardwood and softwood trees.” What it felt like, more simply, was being in the presence of greatness—all the trees towering overhead, all the years they’d seen long before any of us had come to be. A forest has a way of making you feel protected in that way, a feeling I personally associate with looking up to my own parents when I was young. It’s as if they’re whispering, “You’re with us, you’re safe here.”

We paused often to investigate the bark of the trees. Some were moss-covered and damp from the recent days of rain; some were crusty and dry, with legs of sun casting warmth upon them through the lace of the treetops. There were many stumps around, too, which provided resting points for Sadie along the walk, and gave Henry and me the opportunity to talk about the age of trees by counting the rings atop the stumps.

While Sadie collected pine cones and talked to ants, Henry and I tried to match our ages to the living trees. There were lots of Sadie’s making their first uncertain debuts to the forest landscape at the foot of their elders, and just as many Henry’s that had survived the early years of growth and were now well on their way to reaching the sky. We even found some Alyson’s in there, reaching up-and-out with a mixture of semi-confident and hopeful limbs.

I told Henry about Camp Campbell Gard back in Ohio and how every time I visited with school or scouts, my friends and I had to pick a camp name. Mine was usually Alyson Ant, which made him laugh. I asked him what his name would be and he matter-of-factly answered Henry Stick Finder (all the while hoisting two sticks before him and crossing them like dueling lightsabers). Sadie’s name, I told him, should be Sadie Stump Sitter. “Yeah,” she chirped in, clueless to our having a laugh at her expense.

“What should my name be?” I asked him, just as the Baldpate mosquitoes had found and begun to welcome us to the forest. I was, in familiar fashion, jumping and swatting at them and telling them to “shoo” (who needs the age of the trees to remind you you’re nearing middle-age when you can just shout it out?). Henry promptly decided my name for the day would be “Mommy Mosquito Shoo-er.”

We lasted about fifteen more minutes, Henry addressing us by only our new camp names and Sadie finding the few blooming flowers on the forest floor and beheading them. If you can say “beheading” and “peaceful” in the same paragraph, I will … because it was really peaceful. We came home with two new big sticks. It was another great day outside.

A Comedy of Berries

I admit it. Today when I woke up, I was full of negative energy. I knew it right away. My body felt tired, I could sense the lingering stress in my shoulders, and I was still battling this perpetual runny nose. But I turned to find Henry tucked into the covers beside me (where he'd climbed in during the wee hours of the morning) and as I watched the sleepy intermittent flicker of his long eyelashes—I was reminded to put on a smile. It was berry-picking day after all.

We got going slowly, in true summer style, and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast followed by a marathon Play-Doh party. Sadie proudly sat in her booster seat (not without some token daredevil moves) and Henry made blue Play-Doh carrots that were quite life-like (aside from the color). I actually finished a full hot cup of coffee! Finally, though, we had to get dressed. It was after 10 a.m. and I feared the noon o’clock meltdown if we did not make it to the farm soon.

Of course, when I tried to organize everyone, things fell apart. Sadie ran around naked for fifteen minutes, slithering from my grasp like a snake every time I tried to dress her. [She’s unnaturally strong.] During our chase, Henry chose to lounge (also naked) on his bed and stare up at the ceiling, just contemplating life I suppose (or thinking about Cars 2, one or the other). Eventually, I had to nudge Socrates to get a move on … Once both Aiello children were clean, clothed and coiffed—and I was sufficiently exhausted—we got in the car and were on our way to Cider Hill Farm in Amesbury.

Cider Hill Farm is a special place. It sits on 145 acres of hills and valleys, 70 acres of which are used for growing fruits and vegetables. The family-owned-and-operated farm offers a Community Supported Agriculture program as well as an abundance of seasonal pick-your own produce, and a general store complete with the best cider donuts in/the/world. The Cider Hill crew also raises livestock and bees. It’s a place that’s always moving forward, always getting better and always working to provide the ideal family experience no matter the season.

As soon as you turn down the gravel road to Cider Hill, you see healthy, active farmland from all vantage points. It's texture for your eyes as they dart from symmetrical ground-level gardens to mid-level apple orchards to the tall trees that line the horizon. All in every shade of green imaginable. It’s like entering Oz … if Oz were located off Route 150 in Amesbury. Right in the center of the land is the general store, always bustling and artfully landscaped with the season’s best and most bountiful flowers. Today was no different. We parked the car, gathered ourselves and headed in to pick up our green strawberry cartons.

From the second we stepped into the store, though, chaos ensued. Henry went one way, following his nose to the cider donut bakery. Sadie went the other and was soon shoplifting already-picked strawberries from a display and trying to shove them in her mouth. So with one screaming child under my left arm, and one complaining child under my right, I did my best to get them to the counter, wait in line and pleasantly/calmly collect our cartons.

The strawberry fields at Cider Hill are a bit of hike, uphill no less. Truly, the Beatles were playing in my head. Okay, more like taunting me in my head. The walk is lovely, of course, but on this particular day it was somewhat grueling. The temperature was climbing. I had foolishly neglected to bring the stroller, or pull one of the farm’s wagons along for support. Henry wanted to stop at every small wonder of nature. Sadie for the first time in her life … wanted to be carried.

After what felt like a half-mile walk in the blazing sun, we arrived at the strawberries. The bright red berries poked out from under the lush green leaves and delicate white flowers, row after row between hay-laden foot paths. I showed Sadie how to pick a berry. She squealed with delight. Henry, an old pro at five, was already half-way down a row, picking at a good clip and announcing every berry he found as “the best berry ever.” I tried to get Sadie to leave the edge of the patch with me, but she was set on picking all the green and white berries she could to fill her carton.

Suddenly, I lost focus on the baby, the berries and the whole bit … because without even a warning buzz, I was being attacked by what I can only guess was a not-so-distant cousin of the greenhead fly—the bossy little species that show up on the beaches around mid-July. And bite. These fellas are not small, so you very clearly see them attach themselves to your body and just sink their teeth in. I was swatting, running, cursing. My pony tail was in disarray, I had dropped the berry carton. But the fly was relentless. (I’ve actually been scratching the bites on my arms and neck the entire time I’ve been typing.)

To escape, I had to rush-relocate our fun to the far reaches of the field, where, just as a friend had pointed out to me down at the general store, the best, brightest and biggest berries were hiding. I was able to forget the fly. Henry and I got pretty excited, lifting up leaf after leaf to find berries so red and enormous that they sometimes looked the size of three berries in one.

We’d gotten so caught up in fact that I neglected to keep a careful eye on Sadie. So when I finally skipped back to where she was sitting trading bites of berries for bites of the pretzels she’d brought—I discovered she was sampling all kinds of berries. Young tasteless green berries. Dirt-covered berries. Bug-ravaged berries. Berry hulls. Even the really unappealing berries (read: not even the bugs would eat these multi-colored treats). I dropped to my knees and pulled the carton away from her. She screamed at me in her usual furious babble while I sorted out the bruised and bitten berries. Then, I scooped her up once again and carried her along as we quickly filled the rest of our cartons with the berry boon we’d found.

When it came time to head back down and pay for the berries, I narrowed my eyes and stared down the long path to the store, wondering just how long it would take (and how painful it would be) to carry a baby, two full cartons of berries, a camera, a purse and a diaper bag all the way back. Then something amazing happened.  Another mom noticed the worried look on my face and offered Henry and Sadie a ride back in her wagon with her daughter. I could have hugged her—in a really dramatic, tackling kind of way, too. All the negative energy that had been haunting me turned positive (even as I could feel and then see red strawberry guts and mud splayed in a circle on the knee of my pants). I was dirty, sweaty, tired, hungry, itchy but grateful—mostly grateful.

We made our way back talking about the kids and the farm. It was nice. Once we paid, we even got a chance to eat a few cider donuts and feed the handsome Red Star chickens in the shade of the coop. Turned out pretty great in the end. But I definitely learned a couple of important things today. Namely, when it comes to nature plus two kids, sometimes you need to tag team it. Also, don’t bring a hungry baby to the strawberry patch at lunch time.

Pinwheels at the Beach

It was an overcast 50 degrees outside today, maybe even cooler—definitely cold at Salisbury Beach. But, it was also a gloriously windy day and I knew the gusts would feel even stronger seaside. So this afternoon, after preschool let out, to the beach we went to play with the wind.

Giant rain clouds crowded each other over the ocean and the water itself was a steely gray with a whole lot of chop. The sea grass on the dunes bent so deeply in the wind that the blades looked like they were trying to bury their heads in the sand. I didn’t blame them.

Sadie and Henry were brave, however. They held tightly to the flower-shaped pinwheels we’d bought for our garden but had brought with us today to test the strength of the wind. The magical spinning possessed their eyes like a Fourth of July sparkler. I was surprised Sadie could even hold hers, it was whirring so fast. Henry presented his to the sky as if it were Neptune’s scepter, challenging the wind.

For fun, we held the pinwheels in different positions to see how the changes affected the quickness and direction of the spin. And we talked about how slowly the pinwheels had turned yesterday when there had been very little breeze in our fenced-in yard. The pinwheels continued to zip and whip. We touched them to the sea grass and to the tips of our fingers. Henry got a petal to the face once, but soldiered on. And believe it or not, we lost only one pink petal from Sadie’s wildly spinning flower.

When the two finally tired of clutching the pinwheels, we stuck them in the sand and huddled together to read “Flora’s Very Windy Day” by Jeanne Birdsall, which we had checked out of the Newburyport Public Library yesterday. It’s a story about a young girl who’s forced to play outside with her little brother against her will. She’s so perturbed that she wishes him away—and like that, the wind scoops him up. Flora, who believes her special red boots had grounded and protected her in the face of the wind, steps out of the boots in order to follow after her brother. Together they ride the wind on a journey that brings her to the realization she, indeed, wants to keep her brother.

It’s a fun story with sweet artwork and both kids, even with the three-and-a-half year age difference between them, were engaged in it. I learned it’s a blast to have story time outside! Henry wondered if it were really possible to be carried up to the moon by the wind—and suggested we try it with Sadie. However, we did not.

Instead, we spent the last part of our adventure running around on the barren beach (it was freezing, remember?). Henry kicked sand into the wind and watched the dusty clouds stop mid-air, turn back toward him, then throw themselves back at his feet. Sadie just went running into the wind carrying reeds and sticks, her hair blowing.

Finally, after Henry wrote his name in the brown-sugar sand in large, SOS-quality letters; we were ready to go. Our ears and cheeks were rosy and we were spent. Up on the dunes, the pinwheels turned and turned.

If you want to check out “Flora’s Very Windy Day,” it is probably available at your library or you can purchase it at Amazon.com.

Sadie Meets the Wind

Sadie Leigh Aiello weighs 23 lbs. and measures 32 inches tall. She's 20 months old (as of last week) and still waiting for the two caramel-colored curls at the nape of her neck to grow into big girl hair. She's brave, and, honestly, she's a little bossy. Actually, I often tell people that when she gets fired up she turns those animated eyebrows of hers downward, raises her hands, and curses at me in an angry baby babble that I am thankful I cannot interpret word-for-word.

Like me when I was a child, Sadie is fearless. She is the only "baby" climbing quite ably up, down, around and through all the play structures in the greater Newburyport area. Plus, she's walked miles upon miles in her pink and gray Carter's tennis shoes, size 5. She rarely tires.

So when Sadie met the wind, I have to admit, I took a small bit of pleasure in it because I was assured some healthy fear still existed in her.

We had been on the trails for awhile, waiting for Henry, who had stopped to break up a pile of dirt by pulverizing the chunks of hardened mud into a fine powder that floated off in the breeze. Sadie had taken to picking up sticks and leaves and handing them to me as precious gifts.

Then it happened. One thin, wet brown leaf that had likely only just escaped the ground where it had fallen many months ago (and been pressed down without mercy by the mountains of winter snow), lay in wait before her. As she reached down, hovering her prominent baby belly over the leaf, it suddenly lifted and moved, as if it had come alive right before her very eyes. Then it had moved again, farther this time. But it had no legs, no wheels. Sadie's body turned to stone and her eyes were stuck wide open. Her olive skin had gone pale. Then she'd turned and come running toward me, shrieking with fear.

"It's just the wind," I'd told her. I'd chased down the leaf, then carried it back to her. "See?"

She'd refused to touch it. Instead, she'd hidden herself behind my legs, peering up at the leaf from between my knees. "Eh" she'd said. "Ehhhh!!!" She'd stomped her feet, pointing to the ground for me to release the demon leaf back into the wild. I'd done as she'd wished and let the leaf float back down to the dirt path.

And wouldn't you know it, with trepidation of course, she'd walked toward it again! And then again! She'd tiptoe to within steps of it, tempting it to fly; and by happenstance, it would. Over and over, she'd creep toward it until it would skitter away. It had become a game for her, and the carefree smile returned to her face.

Sadie had met the wind, then feared the wind, and ultimately befriended the wind. That leaf is just lucky she didn't yell at it.

Behold, the Wind!

I’m sitting here typing cross-legged with my socked feet tucked under me for warmth, sweater on, and a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside me. The sky outside is pure white, unsure of whether it wants to release rain, and the cold wind is making the delicate purple and white pansies in my window box shiver like Chihuahuas. Sure feels more like a football-and-chili Sunday in November than it does June 12 …

It’s reminding me of all the wonders there are to behold in nature, though. From large-scale phenomena, like these wild weather systems, to smaller mysteries like what determines the color of a pansy. There are far more marvels in the natural world than we could ever experience or ponder in single a lifetime, and certainly more than I could explain to my children while they’re young.

Yet some elements in nature are so significant to our lives and in our world that they beg for immediate and constant exploration, discussion and experimentation; some so varied, far-reaching, and interconnected that to not investigate the fundamental value of the thing, would be like trying to run having never learned to walk. Such elements are thematic to the human experience. And my favorite of these elements has got to be wind.

Wind is ever-present, and our connections to it are many. Wind is an invisible, powerful force. Wind is weather. It can be friend or foe. Wind can alert our fight-or-flight instinct, or soothe us—all with the same unseen strength it uses to help carry a flock of migrating birds hundreds of miles over land and sea.

We know its power on a grand scale when dangerous tornados bring great tragedy, and we subtly register the calming effect of its sound through the trees. We associate wind with memories and feelings. It's a character, a symbol, and an emotion. Wind can be universal and it can also be personal. In fact, maybe we should start typing it with a capital W, because it’s truly a prime example of how we interact and ultimately connect with nature.

That’s why this week, Henry, Sadie and I will be honoring the Wind with WIND WEEK. We’ll read stories and poems about Wind. We’ll talk about Wind—what it is and how we interact with it. We’ll see, hear and feel Wind. And, most importantly, we’ll be playing with Wind. Of course, I'll be reporting here with some useful ideas and anecdotes, peppered with as many Wind-related puns and clichés as possible, which should be a breeze.

For now, I’m going to refill my coffee cup and play a little Seals & Croft to get me through this unexpectedly chilly June afternoon … “Summer breeze, makes me feel fine ...”

The Transference of "Why"

We started venturing out into the great outdoors—as a brave unit of three, naked of sunscreen, bug spray and expectations—about a week or so ago. My internal GPS was already set to the location. I knew our first destination/adventure/experiment would be the beautiful grounds of Maudslay State Park in Newburyport, where the trails are wide and winding, rock-covered and tree-lined. The paths wrap around like dropped twine so you easily find yourself back where you started, or pretty close. But if you’re lucky, you take a wrong turn or two and end up in the garden where many couples come to be married … or on the edge of the rolling Merrimac River.

It’s funny. I actually wrote a story about Maudslay for our local paper a couple of years back. I had toured the grounds with Donna Sudak, the park’s animated and adoring interpreter, and learned the history of the site. What I walked away with that evening was the sense that this great space was a protected, lovingly cared for state park whose greatest gift is the surprising natural and man-made landscaping throughout. For instance, right now, the rhododendrons are in bloom and the bushes grow like fences of purple starbursts that are bigger than your head. So to come back with a new mission was an exciting thing.

When we first set foot on the path, I was pleased Henry and Sadie moved happily and peacefully along at their own paces, with me sometimes yards behind watching them. No one complained about walking too much or about the humidity that day. No one ran scared of the dragon fly that hovered and bounced with us as we strolled, or the giant clumsy bumble bees that bumped right into us then darted away. In fact, Henry walked at a slow and steady silent stride, while Sadie stopped here and there to fill her fists with pebbles or say “hi” to a sparrow. Before long, we came upon a stretch that was pock-marked with puddles from the previous night’s rain. Fortunately, we had on our boots! I wanted to allow the children to choose their own adventures so I just walked past the puddles. Of course, they did not; and how could they?!

They stood together at the edge of the most tantalizing and deep puddle in sight and slowly touched the tips of their boots to the muddy water. Then they kind of lifted and dropped their feet just a little. I sat down in the grass and simply said, “Go ahead.” I knew this would be the stopping place for the day. Within a few minutes, Sadie had walked right through the muck and begun tossing in her rocks, talking a lot of excited baby gibberish, and desperately searching for the same exact rocks she had thrown in (and finding them!). Henry had collected sticks calling them “power” sticks and begun making swirls, splashes and figure eights in the water. Then, he’d said something only Henry could say at that moment: “Mom, how does water make electricity?”

I wasn’t surprised in the least at his leap of thought and I told him as best I could how water becomes energy. We talked for a good ten minutes about currents and about dams and about turbines, as he moved the stick through the water making sound effects I can only describe as P-SCHEW! (energy). He had one question after another. Rapid fire (as I am very accustomed to). But what I was not accustomed to was that the exchange—not unlike water—flowed somewhere. It moved into new areas of thought. A bigger picture! We didn’t get stuck discussing the “why” or “why not” one family has Comcast while another has DirectTV (which really has quite a long list of variables), or why Sony has a division dedicated solely to children’s films, or debating why he is too young to have his own password for the App store … all carousel questions for us.

No. This was a conversation we were both very much engaged in. This was a connection between the two of us, between us and nature, between lost and found. And the transference of our typical “why” to something so wonderful was a moment to remember. Not just because it had broken a pattern, but because I was reminded I was in the presence of a beautiful, capable and ready mind. A mind that I am very happy and proud to say belongs to my son.

We visited EIA Energy Kids to learn more about Hydropower before bed that night. You can, too: http://www.eia.gov/kids/energy.cfm?page=hydropower_home-basics.

Mission Impossible?

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but sometime between my son Henry’s third and fourth birthdays we lost touch with the outdoors. I’m not talking about being outside at one of the local playgrounds, or going for a stroll through the streets of Newburyport eating candy from Richdale’s, or sitting on the waterfront spooning Gram’s ice cream into our mouths—because we have, of course, maintained that minimal level of connection with “the outside world.” I guess what I’m talking about is extensive, unstructured time in nature. The kind where time itself slips away as you watch lady bugs crawl up and down a tree trunk, or find yourself competing against yourself to see how many times you can get a rock to skip across the Frog Pond—when all you intended to do was to go for a walk.

You see, recently I was jotting down plans for summer adventures and activities to share with my children, Henry, 5, and little Sadie, now 1 ½, when I found myself recalling my own childhood summers. I thought about the days spent out in the yard sitting atop the monkey bars, watching our giant weeping willow sway in the wind and sweep the tiny hill that led down to the tiny creek (that seemed big then), where the neighborhood boys gathered to play “war” with mud-covered rocks, or where we’d all meet up to see who might be interested in a game of kick-the-can. I remember staying out way past dark and cupping fireflies in my hands, trying to feed them blades of grass and then setting them free before heading in for the night. There were so many afternoons spent lying on the grass and watching the clouds drift in the summer sky, imagining they were in a great race toward the sun, with me down below trying to guess the winner. I did these things not out of boredom or loneliness, but rather out of want. They brought me happiness and peace and the feeling that I was in my own world but also connected to something greater. I believe now that those connections with nature fed my creativity, knowledge and sensibility—and made me the person I am today.  But sadly, these memories also made me aware I had been neglecting to provide these amazing gifts to my own children.

For a time, I think I followed the lead of my Henry, so sweet and curious, who has always preferred to direct his sense of wonder toward all things technical—from pushing buttons to turning cranks to studying remote controls. Let me put it this way, when we went to the zoo with our playgroup, we spent more time with the vending machine than with the animals. It was exhausting to try and engage him in other things, especially after my daughter Sadie was born, and I finally gave in/gave up. Our walks through Atkinson Common gave way to adventures in tall buildings to ride elevators so we could compare and contrast their differences. We sat in front of the air conditioner and talked about Freon and coils, instead of breathing the fresh air just beyond. These were the things his mind was drawn to, and I felt inclined to provide the means for him to explore them. While technology is his first love and no doubt his future and while elevators, computers, thermostats and iPods are all wonderful and useful things … I know deep down they cannot engage him with the world the way nature can. As his parent, it’s my job to expose him to the basic wonders of life, those first imaginings and understandings, and give him the fundamentals to use his advanced mind in meaningful ways, technological or not.

Henry is also one of the many children today with a diagnosis of ADHD. While the diagnosis is new, the treatment of symptoms is not (he has faced challenges since infancy) and he has made huge strides with therapy, wonderful teachers and most recently, to my unease, medication. It’s been a long road for us all, but now that he has matured and is better able to follow basic safety rules and practice self-responsibility, I feel more confident taking him on adventures again, giving him the freedom of being outdoors. I’m ready to do everything I can to allow him to escape the noise of buzzing toys, television shows, video games, even the constant sound of voices in the classroom and at home telling him what to do and what not to do. I want him to know and appreciate silence and stillness on his own terms—to build his own defense against the noise in his own mind and in this fast-paced world. Of course, it’s always easier to give a child what they want and to do what works in the moment to save our sanity, but it’s not always best. I realize now, it's time to give what’s best another go.

Just as I was coming into my own reality on these matters, I happened upon a documentary called “Mother Nature’s Child.” The film was actually not intended for me, but was put in my hand at a parenting seminar to pass along to a friend. My curiosity beckoned as I looked at the image of the child dancing among the flowers, thinking it must be from the 70s. Then, I turned the case over and read the summary. It spoke about nature’s role in every part of a child’s healthy development and the importance of keeping nature in the forefront even while we live in a media-centric world. My hand went hot. My heart raced a little. I knew it was no coincidence that the film found its way to me that night. I drove home and watched it right away. The symmetry of thinking unfolded so naturally, I knew there would be no turning back.

And in the excited sleepless hours that followed, it was decided: This family is getting back to nature. Now that “baby” Sadie is running and climbing with the competency and control of a three-year-old, we can do this. And we don’t have to pay anyone to show us how to do it, or show up to class to be told how to do it. We have our own implicit sense of curiosity and creativity to lead the way. There will be trails, fields, beaches, patches of city grass, gardens, and sometimes just our backyard. There will be puddles, creeks, rivers and ponds. Bugs, flowers, rocks and trees. There will be more cuts and bruises and bug bites. And we will get dirty. Real dirty. Because this is The Mud Pie Mission. We’re jumping in with both boot-covered feet, and I can’t wait to share the adventure here with you. 

If you would like to check out “Mother Nature’s Child,” you can find out more here: http://www.mothernaturesmovie.com/. I will continue to share all the useful resources I discover along the way, from books and articles to activities and ideas for getting the most out of being OUTDOORS.