I think I’m getting old enough to start saying, “Back when I was a kid…”
I grew up in the woods and spent all my spare time playing, exploring, building forts and climbing trees. My childhood was about dirt under my bare feet and an undercurrent of wildness.
So it’s no surprise that I like memoirs about other rustic childhoods – not always idyllic, but always filled with tactile, vivid memories.
“Once There Was a Farm” by Virginia Bell Dabney. Virginia, the youngest of three girls, lives with cows and chickens, dusty dirt roads, a rundown old farmhouse, few playmates…and yet all her life she longs for farms and woods and wild places.
“The Mountain and the Fathers” by Joe Wilkins. In the harsh landscape of Eastern Montana, Joe’s story is as much about manhood as it is about the land, “one part grass and two parts sky.”
“Leaving Mother Lake” by Yang Erche Namu. One of the most remote childhoods possible takes place in a stunning mountainous area of China, where women are in charge and there is almost no contact with the rest of the world.
“Where Rivers Change Direction” by Mark Spragg. On the oldest dude ranch in Wyoming, Mark grows up among horses, working men and beautifully rough country.
From another angle, Richard Louv’s “Last Child in the Woods” talks about how kids today are spending less time outside romping, exploring and dreaming. Now some urban communities are building adventure playgrounds where kids can play among trees, dirt, sticks, water and fort-building materials. They can even use tools and play with fire. Just like when I was a kid.