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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required When I was a young boy of about eight years old, we lived in a neighborhood, high up on a hill, on the outskirts of Charleston, WV. Our house was built on a slope with a small front yard out to the street but with virtually no backyard – just a forest of trees and nature sloping down the hill to the hollow far below. My siblings and I loved playing in this natural habitat, collecting lizards, turtles, frogs and other small creatures, while sometimes coming across snakes, possums, deer and other larger animals. We loved our huge backyard playground that we simply referred to as “the Woods”. One night, my parents were hosting a bridge party and had sequestered all of the kids (all seven of us) into bed earlier than usual. Well, being kids, we did not, and could not, refrain from being loud and more rambunctious than our parents had hoped. My father had made a number of trips up the stairs to plead, beg and threaten us to be quiet and go to sleep so the adults could enjoy their party. Finally, as the night started to grow late, quietness was achieved and my parents, at long last, could relax and concentrate on their card game. Until… My bedroom was in the back of the house facing out to the woods and overlooking the valley below. On a clear day you could see for miles and miles. And on a clear night I would look out my window from the top bunk bed, with my little brother below, and stare at the numerous stars lighting up the night time sky. It was just when all was quiet and my parents had assumed that we were all, finally, fast asleep, that I climbed down the ladder from my bunk bed and yelled down from the top of the stairs, “Daaaa-aaaad.” “Joe, get to sleep!” “But Daaaaaad.” “Joe, don’t make me come up there one more time!!” “But Daaaaaaad!” “Dammit Joe, I’ve had enough!!!!!” I heard his chair knock over as he furiously stood up from the card table. I heard the belt being removed from his pants as his weapon of choice for disciplining a misbehaving son. I heard his footsteps thundering from the living room into the foyer leading to the bottom of the stairs where I stood up at the top. Terrified, I turned, running towards my room, shouting, “But Dad, the woods are on fire!” I watched the fire fighters battle the blaze from the top of my bunk bed for several hours, content that I helped save our beloved woods and was spared the angry end of my father’s belt.
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