door you have to pull down with a rope, and a window crisscrossed with dusty cobwebs. Between the woods and Jason’s garage, we’ve got the real estate for a proper war. Jason taunts Sean about bringing a slingshot to a gun fight. Sean taunts Jason about his temper. On this, I’m with Sean. Jason once took a shot in the ass and wouldn’t calm down until he peppered us with half a dozen pellets each. I’m still grinning over that shot. Right in his ass. I wade into their skirmish with all the confi- dence of a thirteen-year-old with acne and middling aim.
my escape, forcing me to double back. I earn a few welts—Jason’s a half-decent shot with his air rifle—and scramble inside his garage. I pull the door shut and search for a hiding spot. Jason and Sean must have heard the racket I made getting in here. They’ll be opening the door any second. Sure enough, the garage door starts to rise. In a panic, I wipe away the cobwebs and push open the window. Somehow the timing works for me to squeeze through before I’m spotted. “Where’d he go?” Sean’s question lingers as I creep away. My laughter explodes as I run into the woods. Shouted protests follow me, but it’s past time I get home. Fading daylight tells me I better hurry if I want to beat my parents. It’s dark when we sit down to for Stouffer’s lasa- gna, but I can still see the woods. Black, spindly masts rising against a backdrop of bluish gray. Night shrouds them from me. As years pass, they’ll fade into memory. Those woods are gone now. Paved over for trucks to load whatever it is they make inside those build- ings. Look on Google, and all you’ll see is a giant paved circle. Almost resembles a tear drop. I feel the loss of those spaces and the games we played within. Guns. Cops and robbers. Swords and sorcerers. Homemade thrills in high definition. The memories are worth a smile, or a wish—one that’s never truly granted—for another walk in those woods. An aching desire, followed by self-admon- ishment. Time to put childish things away. But only away. I won’t forget our woods. They’re safe in the hearth of memory, where all good things remain. Kept because they matter. There will always be woods, and games to play within. The trick is to keep playing. Pull childish things out once in a while. Examine them, and remember a joy once felt, if only for a moment.
these used to be our woods story by PATRICK KAUFMANN O inion Photo by Sirisak Boakaew
“You brought a gun, too?” Sean whines. “Hell am I supposed to do?”
I tell him not to get shot in the ass. Earns me a dirty look and a laugh. Jason promises a 10-count, and just like that we’re racing for cover in the woods. Jason’s count goes quicker than you’d think. I hide behind some fallen trees. The space be- tween their boles would make a half decent fort, if there wasn’t already something furry and prickly hiding inside. I’m confident in my hiding spot, until the thwack of a BB suggests otherwise. A rock hisses by—they’ve got me in a crossfire!
I always remember it being sunny. Brick build- ings baking under warm, golden light. Bugs flit- ting between blades of muted green. Our mobile home sits three lots down the wrong side of the tracks, orange and white with brown trim and an old station wagon rusting in the driveway. I spend my after-school hours watching the USA network’s syndicated action-adventures. After- noons kick off with MacGyver and his glorious mullet adventuring through applied mathemat- ics and creative problem-solving. There’s some moral center I’m supposed to absorb, but pre- teen boys are interested in causing explosions with Drano and cold pills and not much else. Some days, my friend Jason calls, and I’ll dig out a small air-powered BB gun from under my pil- low. Best place for it, no matter what Mom says. You think Martin Riggs or John McClain keep their guns on the shelf? Gun in hand, I’ll hurry down the railroad tracks. This time of day, they’re my quickest route to The Woods. Waste of time checking for trains. They only roll past when I’m trying to sleep, or
watching HBO through the squiggly lines of a 13-inch black and white television.
The Woods. Fancy name for the narrow half- acre of trees separating my street and an old industrial building. Rumor is they make candy inside. I’ve never bothered looking. I’m only in- terested in this tiny bit of wilderness, with its fallen trees and thick leaves. The birds and the squirrels and the occasional stray cat. In winter it’s a snow-covered forest that could’ve led to Narnia. In spring it’s a fog-soaked bog. Summer dries the place out. By autumn, it’s the perfect site for any scenario the thirteen-year-old mind can conjure. Plus, it opens right onto Jason’s back yard. Jason is the only child of divorced parents, and he is raking in those guilt gifts. Pump-it-up Reeboks. Turbografx-16. A really sweet air rifle painted jet black– with a scope! Jason’s got ev- erything, with tagalongs Sean and I to help him play with it all.
I try low-crawling, like on TV, over crackling leaves and noisy, wet mud. The building blocks
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Photo by Linda Lantzy
Most days we’re haunting the woods behind his detached garage. It’s the kind with a creaky
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