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Alive & KickingWhat's Behind The Green Door? |
I was raised in the Pacific Northwest, three miles outside of the small town of Milwaukie, Oregon in an area of tall evergreen trees-cedar, hemlock and fir mixed with maple and alder.
The undergrowth was thick, including sword fern, vine maple, salal, Oregon grape and many other species.
Our family owned only one acre, half flat and near our rural gravel road while the other half extended 200 feet up a steep hill to nearly the top-gaining about 100 vertical feet. Another 40 feet reached the top of the high ridge that ran about 2-1/2 miles through undeveloped woodland.
This undeveloped land was my playground during most of my elementary and high school years.
In the 1940s, undistracted by either TV or computers, the kids I knew set foot inside our houses only to eat, sleep and do chores.
Summers found us outside (generally beyond our mother's call), building huts, swings, climbing trees, making camps, playing Sardines, kick-the-can and tossing each type of ball in season.
The day I found the full-sized, forest-green door, mounted in a solid rock wall slightly below the ridge top, I was alone and half a mile from home. Th ere was a large brass padlock hanging on its hasp, securely locking the door.
This gave me some comfort because no one could spring out from the door and grab me.
As a fifth-grader in the deep shade of the forest, my silence expressed my raw fear.
But I was so curious about that door!
Silently, as on moccasin feet, I found myself arriving home. Strange how distance from that door made me bolder.
By next morning, as the summer sunlight flooded my upstairs room, I had developed a plan. I let my best friend Duck Barr in on the secret and when our cow, chickens and rabbits were fed, my Mom was pacified and we were good to go.
We quietly talked along the trail; our creativity heightened our fears as we closed in on that door.
Our thumping hearts betrayed us.
Pressing our ears to the door, silence prevailed. More stillness as we listened again. Hearing nothing, I smacked the door with the side of my fist. The echo bounced within the chamber, "bam-bam-bam," quieter with each bam-and then silence.
Duck recoiled in shock, not expecting the noise. Great joke! I chuckled as he rubbed his ear.
We scouted the area and found a second cave without a door. It was in solid rock, about man-tall and three-to-four feet wide, blasted 60 feet back into the side wall of the ridge. Following that morning, we took many a city kid back into the cave using candles for light. The trick was to get them inside-and then blow out the candles.
It was two years later when I fell into conversation with an old man about half a mile from home at the foot of the ridge. We had a good talk, kid-to-man.
He asked me if I would like to go to the "xxxxxx" with him. I couldn't get the word. I simply didn't know the word. But, being curious, I said yes, and followed him as he started up the slope behind his house.
Imagine my surprise when he took out a key to the brass padlock on the green door! I kept my distance from him as we stepped inside. I knew I could out run him; fear was on my side.
Inside was a concrete enclosure surrounding a pool of water, which collected from a drip from the cave ceiling. The system replenished the water used down at his home.
What a great idea! Fresh water, gravity-fed through a pipe to his bath and kitchen. No pump, no city water, no expense.
I was relieved-no fear. Nice old man-the neighbor type.
That missing word turned out to be "cistern."
Many miles have come and gone since I journeyed beyond that green door. It has come to symbolize for me that very natural tendency in young people to be curious. It is what buoys us to learn - and sometimes can be our undoing.
Guest columnist John Cooke taught high school biology for 30 years and is pleased to share his insights with our readers.