Climbing trees

At 62, Robert Munsch still climbs trees. This makes me happy. Why? Because anybody who climbs trees knows how to play and I care about playing, and anybody who climbs trees past the age of 12 has retained a sense of child, a sense of their essential self. Plus, Robert Munsch is one of my favorite children's authors, having written I'll Love You Forever, The Paperbag Princess, Thomas' Snowsuit, Mortimer, and many others. So, it is good to know that someone I admire in one respect, I can admire in another respect (and I believe the two are related).

I read that Robert Munsch still climbs trees in an article in The Globe and Mail. The article also states that he likes to cycle and walk his dogs. He says "The good thing is, I have to walk the dogs every day. Once I'm out there I do the rest of the stuff. I've been climbing trees since I was a little kid. I just never stopped. Climbing trees is like climbing mountains, except it's less expensive and they're closer."

Which got me thinking about climbing trees and climbing other things. As a child, I loved to climb trees. We didn't just climb; we made up games about climbing. One of the trees that we climbed tilted precariously toward the south, its trunk was void of branches and there was a crack from the ground to where the branches finally spread. We would time each other as we put our hands in the loamy crack, brace our feet against the tree and scamper up to the branches. Another game could only be played in the spring when the crab apple blossoms were in full bloom. The game was to nestle and hide into a spot entirely covered in the fragrant white blossoms. There would be five or six of us at once in the tree. One person would not climb but would stand a distance from the tree and try to spot us. The last one spotted won.

I recall once when we were playing this game, my brother climbed high into the tree and couldn't (wouldn't?) climb down. I think it was just the two of us playing that day, and as his older sister, I walked away in disgust, sure that as soon as I turned my back, he would climb down. He didn't and started to yell, "Help, help". I ignored his cries. I was embarassed a few minutes later when a fire truck pulled up and firemen helped him out of the tree. We lived by a river and his cries for help carried. A well-meaning neighbor heard the cries, thought someone was drowning in the river, and called emergency services. I was even more mortified a day later when a newspaper article appeared with the headline "What goes up, must come down". I remember this so vividly probably because I felt guilty and embarrassed but I've never thought to ask my brother what his memory of this incident is like.

I miss climbing trees. The trees in Alberta are not suited to climbing the way they are in other places. I haven't seen a child in a tree in a long time. Reminiscing about climbing trees has inspired me to a new goal. The next time I see a climb-able tree, I will climb it. It will be fun looking out at trees to determine a suitable one and it will be fun seeing where I next am when I finally climb a tree again. And when I'm in that tree, I will think of Robert Munsch and Mortimer, one of the characters he created, and will shout out like Mortimer would. "Clang, clang, rattle-bittle-bing-bang, I'm going to make my noise all day".