In New England, years ago when boys were free,
outdoor thrills included the climbin’ tree.
Good climbin’ trees were pretty hard to find;
and other’s trees weren’t as good as mine.
Branches low enough for a lad to grab;
swing a leg up and around; twist a dab,
settle back, astride, facing outwardly;
Hold on; stand up; look ‘round; you’re in the tree.

Some trees were branched for an easy climb,
like ladder rungs, so you’d make good time
scooting up to where the branches thinned,
to savor your domain and feel the wind.
With luck you would find branches just right,
spaced ideally for a boy your height;
you’d hold the upper branch and sidle out
to where it yielded, then you’d give a shout.

Pumping up and down to hear “gees” and “wows,”
working a resonance among the boughs;
soon, other branches would get agitated,
then the whole tree in your control vibrated.
As the leaves brushed each other, they would hiss.
Times were perfect then, nothing seemed amiss.
But soon all would tire of the howls and hoots,
so we’d quit tree games for other pursuits.

Most sugar maples made good climbin’ trees,
although the thick bark might scrape the knees.
But a scrape or two won’t deter a lad;
there’s joy in a tree, such fun to be had.
If a tree was old with mighty branches,
you could lie back and relax and not take chances,
sometimes drowsing off in that leafy cocoon,
daydreaming about life, or humming a tune.

Sometimes, there’d be a large evergreen somewhere,
easy to climb, but you’d get twigs in your hair.
When you were done, although the tree was a snap,
you were completely covered with icky sap.
And you really could not do much else afterward,
except amble away unhappily homeward,
to be told by your mother, “Stop climbing those trees,”
but she might as well have told me to walk on my knees.

Some climbin’ trees were of a different sort;
providing occasion for another sport.
When wandering through meadows and woods nearby,
we looked for slender trees about fifteen feet high.
These we would shimmy up, and then holding on tight,
throw our weight outward, toward left or to right.
If the tree was ideal, it would yield and bend round,
lowering its boy-load gently, right to the ground.

The tree would snap back, swishing at release;
a fitting end to a childhood caprice.
Sometimes we misjudged, and to our dismay,
found ourselves suspended, up quite a way.
With little choice then, we would let go each hand,
hoping to survive a descent so unplanned.
At times the tree splintered and we would land hard;
of course, we’d that tree (or did it us?) discard.

It would grow on, I suppose, despite its collapse,
causing someone, after many years had elapsed
to wonder what occurred to make the tree deformed.
‘Twas result of the antic that a boy performed.
Some trees were not right for climbing at all,
their branches too high - we were just too small.
Or the branches were too thin, and we knew they’d break;
these trees were the sort we’d like to jostle and shake.

Of course, girls ,‘cept for tomboys, would not climb trees;
but we didn’t expect them to have such abilities.
Back then ,tree climbin’ was part of a lad’s stripling phase;
a rite of boyhood passage in those pre-TV days.
You’d better be able to get up a climbin’ tree,
or be mocked as sissy by a brash boy like me.

❀