Hill of Dreams

Many adults fondly remember a childhood retreat, a place all their own – secret, special, soothing. I know such a place -- my hill of dreams.

Farmland in Wisconsin gently rolls from valleys to mounds to hills – some rather large, but always gentle, rounded on top. Just above our farmhouse was a hill wanna-be. Larger than a ground slope, it was safely accessible to a youngster and, from the top, served up fantastic views of the surrounding countryside. Huge flat rocks lined the perimeter; some stood precariously on end like Town House crackers in a bowl of guacamole dip. Leafy branches formed a sieve-like roof, peppering the grassy center with dots, streaks, and splashes of sunshine. And now, as an adult, I return there often, and when I do, immediately I am a child again.

I go to my hill when I feel sad or when joy bubbles in my heart. I escape there every chance I get. An introverted youngster, I enjoy my own company, preferring conversations in my head to actual oral exchanges with other people – even my family.

With my chores finished, I grab my diary, a pen, and a library book, and ascend into heaven – atop my hill. I position my small back against the tallest, flattest rock, stretching my legs before me. I sit quietly for several moments, drinking in the welcome privacy, the solitude. Birds and ants share this haven; I let them. There I reign as princess in my leafy tower room – my castle on the hill, waiting for Prince Bob to rescue me.

Etched with a screwdriver into the rock opposite me is a crude heart, encasing “B.S. loves B.O.”, Bonnie and Bob. Destiny speaks to me now; our names even start with the same letter of the alphabet. It is meant to be. Each time I enter this little paradise, our initials on the enduring boulder assure me that our love will remain so forever. Prince Bob won’t be riding up on a white horse. I know that – I’m not stupid. He’ll be in his father’s Chevy or Studebaker (I never could distinguish between makes of cars), and he’ll sweep me off to a farm similar to this one where I will reign eternal as his wife.

Below me, Mom works in her riotous flower garden, stooping as though preparing for a game of leapfrog. My siblings laugh and chatter somewhere beyond my consciousness. My hill becomes everything; my family and my life retreat into nothingness. I think to myself, “I shall stay here forever and be happy.” I quickly scribble in my diary my intention to never leave my hill and then I laugh aloud at my foolishness. Of course I will leave. When Prince Bob comes for me, I will be happier still.

I thumb my way through Wuthering Heights and immediately transport myself to that dark, foreboding age of the Bronte sisters, walking on the undulating moors in cold, piercing rain, my castle shimmering in the distance. I smile. There on my hill, I can do or be anything I like.

But shy, daydreaming children sometimes grow into sad, disillusioned adults. Pollyanna becomes Roseanne: reality slaps mature faces. Prince Bob was delayed. Actually, he never came at all. He became infatuated with a well-to-do “townie” with perfect teeth and hair who owned dozens of mix-and-match mohair sweaters, a genuine leather purse, and bazillions of 45 rpm records. Some time later, she lost him, too. He married someone else, etching the first deep crack in my heart. I feel it yet.

There on my hill, I was invincible. But my hill is gone, bulldozed into oblivion long ago, my rocks pulverized in the name of progress. But in my mind and memory I still go to my hill when I am sad or when I feel joy. I see it all just as it was – the initialed rock, the trees, the grass, the sun. And again I smile.