I grew up in Southeast Wisconsin. There was a large field about a mile and a half from the house where I grew up. It had, at the northeast side of the field, a swamp. We used to play in the swamp. It was not very big, probably smaller than we thought it was. But it was ours. Not literally: we owned nothing. But we considered it ours.
The entire field and swamp were our sanctuary. We would meet there, play there, fight with each other, and interact in our little subculture. We built forts there, and made fires. They never caused damage: we knew how to handle fire. As we grew older, we would smoke cigarettes and marijuana, and occasionally explored the strange and forbidden territory of the opposite sex.
In the spring, the colors were vibrant, the good earth waking from her slumber. It brought the promise of new life. In the summer the air was hot and humid; but clean. The breezes and sunlight seemed to infuse us with a sedate contentment.
In the fall, the leaves turned brown, orange and gold, and the air cooled off. The world took on a more introspective mood; as yet unhampered by the burdens of adulthood. I still feel this in the fall. Fall and spring are my favorite times of the year.
Winters in Wisconsin were hard. They still are. Bitterly cold. Knee deep snow. Driving icy winds hammering at us from Lake Michigan. Violent and frightening storms would erupt on the lake during the Gales of November. But this didn’t seem to spoil the beauty of the land. It had a song of its own: if you knew how to listen.
All this was thrown into raw, sharp relief in the field and in the swamp.
Near the field was a small shopping mall. One of the first of its kind in the area. It had a grocery store, drug store, hardware store, liquor store, and two other small businesses that changed from time to time.
In later years the shopping mall began to grow. On the opposite side of the field, they began to build low income housing. Bulldozers and diggers came and began to dig up pieces of the field. Our field!
Then they began building more, and more. They drained the swamp, and paved it over. The birds and frogs that lived there died. The mosquitoes that they ate became overpopulated and in the summer clouds of them were everywhere. Entire species of insects disappeared. I haven’t seen a stag beetle in decades. They upset the balance of nature, and nobody noticed or cared. Someone was making money: and the rest were sold the lie of impending prosperity that never came.
By this time I was beginning to be distracted by the peculiar sensation of entry into young adulthood.
Later, I moved to New York City. I got lost in the concrete jungle.
The field is gone. The swamp is gone. The children have no place to play. Nowhere to be human.
These are my memories, my treasures. You can’t take them from me.