The forest is a century old, mixed hardwoods, trunks thick as rain barrels—the childhood gymnasium of four generations, prime real estate for tree houses and tire swings. The forest ringing with war whoops, high-pitched laughter, Ollie Ollie Oxen Free. There have been epic games of Red Rover, Red Rover; hide-and-seek invitationals that lasted for hours. There have been acts of boyish heroism, stealth attacks on tree forts, death-defying climbs. It is a province of children, a place adults do not venture—the coffee-drinkers and newspaper-readers, the taxpayers and insurance-buyers, the wearers of lipstick and ties. A kingdom governed by ancient laws, passed down through the ages, Dibs and Three Strikes and Tag, You’re It. From the surrounding neighborhoods—at suppertime, at dusk—come the distant calls of parents. Among the kids there is an unspoken protocol: the first two calls are to be ignored. Endless summer days. The forest is cut with a Chisholm 600, the industry standard.
