I was riding my bicycle on the trail up to Worthington on Friday afternoon. When I got close to Hills Market, I observed a group of youngsters enjoying the beautiful weather and the freedom from school as they were playing in the woods and at a small creek that feeds into the Olentangy River.

In the small village of Northport, Long Island where I spent some years as a child, there were woods that overlooked Main Street. In addition to the beach, the harbor and endless roads on which we travelled on two wheels the woods offered us endless hours of fantasy and play when I was growing up.

We considered it our own private forest. It was probably owned by someone land as there were houses surrounding it, but no one ever bothered us out there. On hot summer days we would venture into them looking for adventure. We played “army” a lot with our toy rifles. There was also a time that the woods became Sherwood Forest. We were Robin Hood and his merry men, hiding from the Sherrif of Nottingham. We fashioned bows out of saplings and string and small pieces of wood as arrows which never flew. Towards the edge of the woods, we could peer down into the downtown, knowing that we were invisible to the folks visiting the library, the shops, the diner.

I remember one tree in particular where we used to hang out. It seemed enormous at the time. There was a floor of sorts, eight inches off the ground in the middle covered with moss. Although it was one tree, on either side of this green landing were two main trunks that sprouted high into the sky and covered us in shade. This was our headquarters, our throne room, the deck of our boat. We could climb up both sides to the top. We called it the double crow’s nest. I was offered my first cigarette up at the peak of that tree. I declined, not because I was fearful of doing something wrong but because I am a natural klutz. I needed both hands to keep from falling to the ground and couldn’t manage the match or the cigarette.

We were a roving band of innocent miscreants. We felt as if the woods were ours. In fact, we felt that the whole town and the waterfront were built solely for our delight, and we appreciated every day that we were free of the constraints of school, church, chores or family obligations.

There are many out there who are proponents of year-round school. If there was no summer vacation, the argument goes, there would be no summer slide in learning and parents would have a place for their children to go year-round. There is merit in both positions but my own memories and what I learned from long days that drifted into short evenings in the woods and all around Northport were essential in shaping my sense of friendship, love of nature and enjoyment of life. I know that today’s realities make a replication of these times difficult, but I was educated more in those unstructured times with my friends than I did sitting at my desk at St. Philip Neri School.

I hope that our children and grandchildren can have some time this summer to play, to dream, to make memories, to have fun in between camps and sporting events. In fact, I wish for the same things for all of us adults!

Jim Silcott