Falling Squirrels

An amazing amount of life goes on at the edge of the forest. Our backyard sits at the top of a slope. A sliver of green grass ends at an old growth forest descending to a steep, mud sided stream.

We bought this house for the trees. My husband and I hoped the forest would help our children to be comfortable with a wilder nature than a long, trimmed green lawn.

My son has planted bulbs in the fertile dirt. He has a secret fort, follows deer trails and clambers over the storm killed trees.

I have developed the habit of standing at our picture window with my first cup of coffee. Lately, I seem to be almost searching the winter bare forest of old oaks, maples and ash.

Today, I witness the free fall of one gray squirrel. It falls at least 30 feet, landing hard with a single bounce, up to a scrambled run in one complete motion. It falls without much struggle. No clawing at the air, twirling and squeaking all the way down.

Gray squirrels do lead perilous lives. Everest must be encountered almost routinely. What impels them to climb so high? Are they somehow designed to withstand the certain amount of failure built into their lives?

My quiet morning mind follows an arc of memory back to a slow, hot Sunday morning. I am a restless, nine year old tomboy walking back alone from a friends’ house. I notice the mean neighbors are gone. Their huge willow tree stands drooping, sandwiched between a red cedar fence and the far end of their buckling concrete driveway. Our neighborhood group had been forbidden in a finger pointing, head shaking episode to climb it.

Tomboys have to work hard to hang out with the boys. I sneak slowly down the driveway, peeking in the curtained windows. I swing up, climbing swiftly to the top and stand between two thin branches, enjoying the freedom of unlimited vision and blue sky. Then full of triumph, decide to try swinging down like a monkey from branch to branch. Three branches down,I miss, falling at least 20 feet to land spread eagle flat on the cement below.

The world goes black. Opening my eyes, thinking with some excitement, “I blacked out”. My head is pounding with the same rhythm as my heart loudly beating in my ears. I take a loud, gasping breath, reaching and finding my glasses. Pull myself into a wobbling, crouching run down the driveway onto the empty sidewalk and slow to a less suspicious walk.

At home, I stick a piece of ice on my head and tell no one. How can I tell the boys I fell? How can I tell my mother I climbed the forbidden tree?
Just that week, I had failed at lying about my homework and was caught stealing a pencil from another girls’ school desk on a dare.

Sitting on my bed in my darkened room, ice water trickling down my bumped head, I thought my adventures through. In the simple logic of nine year olds, I decided this was my peculiar curse. I would have to be good because I keep failing at being bad.

With a start, I return, watching as another squirrel awkwardly claws up the oak in front of me. Parallel process is a term describing the same issue working in different ways in two people. I am searching the trees for my independent, no fear nine year old son. Our worlds have intersected in the trees of our backyard.

Sighing, I take a sip of coffee. I want him to have his own stories, his secret world of childhood. I just don’t want him to fall.
Even squirrels fall sometimes.

I turn away from the trees, looking for release from this circular worry. He has to know how to fall and fail. I hope I am strong enough to bear the watching.

written six years ago, I am still worrying and trying to be strong.