When I go out into the countryside and see the sun and the green and everything flowering, I say to myself Yes indeed, all that belongs to me! ~Henri Rousseau
It is the summer of 1960 in the midwest. A group of neighborhood children roam fields and forests, exploring the creeks, looking for jack-in-the-pulpit plants, and picking wildflowers. Huge red barns, silos, and farmyards with chickens, dairy cattle, horses, and sheep are part of the landscape.
The days begin with the sounds of roosters crowing, as the early sunlight streams in through the windows. Birds awakening chirp and sing, otherwise it's quiet in the countryside. Leaves rustle or shake in the breeze, and the fields of hay or oats ripple in the wind.
A country lane called Hobson Road has driveways to white clapboard farmhouses surrounded by tall shade trees. Occasionally a car or truck from a nearby farm comes down the road. Black and white dairy cattle graze in green pastures.
A large pond with willow trees has a smaller road next to it. Down that lane there is a circular drive of about 1/2 mile with eight or ten houses scattered around it on small acreages.
Next to one of the long, gravel driveways is a red mailbox and a clump of evergreens. Beyond is a brick ranch house, with evergreens and petunias in the front yard. Several acres stretch behind the house. Then there is a wire fence, and beyond that a field of corn, then a forest.
This was the house, 15 miles outside of Naperville, Illinois, 45 miles west of Chicago, where I lived from age five to age fourteen.
Today, 2007, I hear that the area is heavily populated. But in the 1950's and 1960's, we were a long way from town, and there were only a few friendly neighbors there sharing the peaceful countryside.
Each year there was a Christmas party, that moved from house to house, singing Christmas Carols. We always finished the evening with a potluck at the house of a neighbor who had decorated the basement.
Most basements were cement walls and floors, with windows below ground level that looked out at a "window well" that held the dirt back. The ceiling was the bare underside of the first floor of the house. A few light bulbs with strings hung down.
On the last day of school each year, the children from the surrounding houses were picked up by a neighbor pulling a hay wagon with a tractor. This was the way we celebrated the beginning of summer vacation.
The country school had two or three grades in each room. There were only about ten students in each grade. In the lower grades, when it was time for our class to practice reading, we went to sit at a circular table in the front of the room with the teacher.
Girls wore skirts or dresses, and boys wore slacks and shirts. At the beginning of class we recited the Pledge of Allegiance and sang a song, such as "My Country 'Tis of Thee" or "America The Beautiful."
For recess we would run outside to play in a mowed field with big trees. There were several crabapple trees, but the crabapples were too bitter to eat. The branches of these trees spread out and reached to the ground in places. We used the places under the crabapple trees for meeting places. During school we'd say to our friends "see you under the crabapple tree."
Under the crabapple trees we planned what games to play. A favorite for the girls was pretending to be wild horses. We were all "horse crazy" and we drew pictures of horses on everything. We named horses we saw in pastures, and imagined the day when we could be old enough to ride horses, flying across the land. We could all toss our hair like a horse tossing it's mane, scrape the ground with one foot like a horse pawing, and make noises like horses when they whinney, neigh or nicker.
We would dream of horse names for ourselves and whole horsey backgrounds. One of us might be a black and white spotted horse, with a name like "Beauty," and be from somewhere around the Grand Canyon. The horse's likes and dislikes, personality, and home were all part of the story. We each had two names, our own and our horse name.
Looking back from 2007 at 1960 it's hard to believe it all happened almost 50 years ago. But, it's easy to see where my love of the countryside comes from.
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