I had been doing it -- repeatedly. It was great fun to reach the upper reaches.
I could look down on the roof and imagine where the walls were to the kitchen; to my bedroom.
"Ricky...Ricky where are you?" It was a mother looking for her missing five year-old. Urgency was in her voice.
I realized I was invisible; an observer of the world below.
"Ricky!"
"I'm up here."
Her eyes followed the voice up, up the tree trunk.
"Ricky get down from there." It was the kind of command that was to be obeyed with haste. But it was revised. Counselling to be cautious was given.
I'm sure she held her breath as I moved limb to limb. As my feet hit the ground after dropping the foot or so from the access branch, the scolding began.
I did not know what the big deal was. I had done it over and over.
I was not to do that again!
Well, I certainly wouldn't get caught.
I remained enamored with trees; climbing them well into adulthood. I sat in them and watched as squirrels quizzically watched me. I also sat at their bases, leaning against the trunk and pondering all that was around me. My camera was often in my lap.
I actively seek them out and love to come across one that is awesomely large. I still climb . . . but now mostly to prune and trim.
