14.
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When I was a kid, a tree grew in front of my home. At the age of 10, I was just tall enough to reach its lowest branch and lift myself into its embrace. I wasn't the only climber. Sometimes two or three of my friends would join me in the sycamore, or in the maple down the street. Climbing trees allowed us to enter another world. In fact, it was a world within a world: We took our imaginations with us into those heights, which by turns were a fortress, a pirate ship, a spaceship, or a mountain castle.
In my small Maine town there are some lovely maples, lindens, and oaks. Their branches spread wide and they are strong enough for people to climb. But I have not yet seen a climber. Perhaps computer games have taken place of tree climbing, or maybe the activity went the way of monkey bars, which came to be viewed as too risky and have largely disappeared from playgrounds.
It is a sad loss. I have always believed that, since low-hanging limbs provide no benefit to the tree, they must be meant for the child. Robert Frost understood this when he wrote: When I see birches bend to left and right, across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. My only disagreement with Frost is his inference that tree climbing is a gender-specific undertaking. Both boys and girls have what it takes to make a joyful ascent.
The campus of the university where I teach is lovingly landscaped with all sorts of trees. During a recent walk, I grabbed a branch and a moment later I was sitting on it. Then the memories came flooding back: The old friends, the long view of my neighborhood, and finally, the reluctance to return to earth when the parental call to supper came.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't hear the student calling to me from below. He asked what I was doing. I didn't waste time on explanations. "Come on up, "I said. "The air's fine. "But he only laughed, and waved me off. He didn't know what he was missing.