Strawberry Hill, Where the Woods Begin

Strawberry Hill, Where the Woods Begin

The road to our house was a skinny gray ribbon stitched to the land by fields of wildflowers and farms. Everybody knew South Fork! It was a mini dome-like world outside the little town of Rittman. The allotment was filled with similar, practical homes.

The road we lived on was called Strawberry Hill, though no strawberries had ever grown there. The hill wasn’t even a hill more like the earth had shrugged once and never fixed its shirt. But at the end of that shrug, at the edge of our road, the world changed. Asphalt quit, and the woods began.

The woods were not on any map we kept on the fridge. The woods belonged to themselves. They smelled like wet grass clippings and peppermint pine, like dusty jeans and rainy days. They waited where everything stopped beyond the last mailboxes, where the streetlights ended wearing a grin, whispering in the breeze: Step on in and play for a while.

It was usually me and my sister Kelly, who was close to me in age and closer still in brain static. We could communicate whole essays with a look or just one word spoken. We were like a pair of hawks scouting trouble my smirk the yes-yes let’s do it anyway.

We weren’t supposed to venture too far from home, especially not into the woods. We had to be in ear shot in case my dad would whistle for us to come home. If we missed that whistle and my dad had to get in his vehicle to come find us. We knew for sure we were in serious trouble!

When we weren't playing Barbies inside , we were outside running around or riding our banana seat bikes. Our bike rims were always chiming sweet songs from their spoke charms. (Tink Tink Tink as the wheels rolled.) We wore scabbed knees, bruises, and at least twenty mosquito bites like merit badges.

And we had friends the dozens of boys and girls our age from the houses around the block who were a constellation of torn jean shorts, slap bracelets, and Kool Aid stained smiles. Buzzed bowl cuts and high ponytails that could’ve won awards, if there were awards for hair that refused to obey.

We’d meet at the end of Strawberry Hill and fling our bikes into the weeds like offerings. Those bikes would wait for us, patient as snails, while we melted into the trees. Hide-and-go-seek was our go to. Base was the busted old treehouse tucked high up in a tree.

Someone would holler, “You’re it!” someone else would declare, and off we galloped cracking twigs, whisper shouting, the thrill of being found next running in our veins.

The first steps into the woods were always the same: leaving the asphalt behind and stepping onto sandy, camel colored dirt, feeling the ground take us in. The forest floor had a spongy, cool bounce. We’d scatter between trees and bushes furred with greenery, jumping over logs that had surrendered to the forest floor.

The woods were a symphony of small noises branches bending in the breeze, giving off five second cracklings. Birds so talkative, they stitched the air with gossip only the trees could understand.

The thick green scenery surrounded us, but there were still pathways winding through: dirt trails with rollercoaster humps, carved by neighborhood kids on endless rides with their Huffy bikes and sugar rushes.

“Count to fifty!” one of us would command, and the others would groan, because fifty is forever when you’re eleven, twelve, or fourteen when the sky is hot, the urge to pee sets in, and your legs cramp from hiding.

I learned how to be invisible in those woods. Find a groove behind a rotten stump, pull leaves over your body, slow your breathing until even the bugs don’t notice you. The trick is to become one with where you’re hiding Sometimes seekers passed so close I had to bite down on my smile and contain my giggle. Then came the explosion: “FOUND YOU!” and the mad dash to base, tree bark chipping away under the constant slaps of kids declaring themselves safe.

One muggy afternoon the kind where the whole sky feels like it’s holding its breath we set out to explore deeper. A few of our neighborhood friends came along, excited for the expedition. My sister walked ahead, me picking up the rear.

We walked for what felt like hours, just when we were about to turn back, we stumbled into a clearing. The trees had lined up like soldiers, forming a perfect circle. The ground softened from leaves and twigs to bright green grass and there, sudden as magic, was the pond.

It was round as a dropped coin, cradled by the land, its edges stitched with cattails and lily pads crowned with pink flowers. Dragonflies zipped like confetti. The surface held the sky in its lap, careful not to spill.

We claimed it instantly. Our secret place. Our secret pond. We splashed, explored, and took turns sitting on a flat rock that begged to be a throne. A frog croaked the kind of gulp that could mean hello or leave, depending on your mood.

The sunbeams stabbed through the canopy, spotlighting us like we were tiny insects under a microscope.

The woods had paths that weren’t really paths more like suggestions. We gave them names: the Triple Humps, the Treehouse, the Fallen Tree. That giant fallen tree was so big we could all sit on it like one giant bench. There was also the place with the nails, where I once stepped on one that slid straight through my shoe and into my foot.

But the pond was different. It was ours. We stayed until our shadows lengthened into mistakes. Time slipped away the way time loves to be forgotten.

Reluctantly, we said goodbye to our new treasure. Goodbye, pond. We’ll be back.

But as we turned away, the air split with a voice.

“Hey! You kids this is private property!”

We froze. Then again, louder: “I said HEY!”

A man with shoulder length, golden blonde hair was running toward us. My stomach dropped.

“Everybody RUN!” I shouted.

Branches clawed our arms, roots grabbed at our shoes, the woods suddenly meaner than ever. Behind us, the man’s boots hammered the ground, closer and closer. My lungs burned, my heart pounded, and the only thought I could manage was,

Don’t get caught!

Don’t get caught!

The break in the trees appeared like salvation. We burst onto Strawberry Hill, our bikes waiting in the weeds, loyal as dogs. The neighborhood kids scrambled on, chains rattling, sneakers slipping on pedals. I grabbed mine, leapt on, and shouted to my sister,

But she had fallen.

Her bike was tangled beneath her. She sat frozen in fear, as if giving up was easier than trying.

“Get up! Get up now!” I screamed.

She didn’t move. For a heartbeat I saw the future wrong me pedaling away, her swallowed by the man’s shadow. The thought carved me raw.

Then she blinked, gulped air, and scrambled to her knees. Her hands shook as she fumbled onto her bike.

The man’s voice crashed down one last time: “I SAID STOP!”

But by then, we were gone wheels spitting gravel, wind slapping our faces, the woods blurring into streaks of green and brown.

Strawberry Hill stretched ahead, wide and shining like freedom. And this time, we didn’t look back.

When we finally skidded into our yard, we dumped our bikes in the grass, wheels still spinning, and collapsed. For a long moment we couldn’t speak, just lay there, breathless and trembling.

“I thought he had me,” Kelly admitted, her voice cracking.

“You froze,” I said not accusing, just remembering. “But you got back up.”

She wiped dirt from her face, streaking her cheek. “Only ’cause you yelled at me.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “I wasn’t going to leave you there.”

For a moment we stared at each other then burst out laughing, manic and unstoppable.

Right there, lying in the grass, we made a vow, we would never go back to that pond again.

And so it became known, forever after, as the day of the chase, the day we almost got caught, deep in the woods on Strawberry Hill.