The BirdHouse as we called it completely changed the family dynamic. Walking was no longer the usual manner of getting from home to school or to any place else for that matter. Bill and I had bicycles and horses and there was a school bus. But there was a place that connected to no path, a place I would soon call my own. I would call it Meadowlark Hill.
I wandered away from home one rainy day. Sometimes when it rained I would run outside with only a pair of shorts and relive those younger days on Lottie Street when on warm summer days Father would adjust the nozzle on our garden hose and sprinkle Bill and me. On this particular day I walked down to Fisher Creek and sat beneath the limbs of the oak trees. As the rain slowed to a drizzle, the squirrels came out to inspect the half-naked young human in their midst.
I threw an acorn toward one of the animals. Several of these fuzzy tailed rodents darted back into hiding but the one with whom I held eye contact stood his ground. I pitched another nut in his direction.
Eventually, the sun began to show its rays beyond this oaken arbor and I left my new friends to cross the creek, leaving the protection of the thousand or so oak leaves to get a better look at Meadowlark Hill. It didn’t really have a name yet.
It was simply……… The Hill with the Tree on Top.
