It's a gorgeous summer day. Just the kind of day for a long walk in the forest preserve that lay in back of our house. There's work afoot though, all around the house. Things that need doing. Everyone else is busy with their own private chores. So I attempt to occupy myself with mine too, but the pull of  the forest is too strong for my will. I can feel a deep need for wavy green around me. Nagging me persistently like an itch you just can't find. So. On pretense of emptying the garbage can I walk outside and cross to the old barn. I hear a voice behind me say, "Hey Dad, can I come?"

I look back and see my eight year old son Chris walking towards me. He'd seen me sneak out of the house and knew where I was off to. "Sure, come on," I tell him, glancing over my shoulder back at the house to see if anyone else has spotted us. Nope. Just Chris. He's a great kid. We've raced little wooden stock cars in his Cub Scout meetings several times and invariably we lose. We just never could get those cars to go very fast. Chris told me once, after we'd lost again, "Hey, someone has to lose. I just like doing this with you." And he looked at me with this look he has, that he's always had since he was born. A look of love.

He's got a smile on his face a mile wide now. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be cleaning your room?" I ask, with a serious look on my face. He just keeps smiling and hunches his shoulders. "I'll do it when we get back," he says. I just nod and say no more.

We walk along a gravel road that runs through a small transported town. Old buildings scheduled for destruction were moved here one by one and arranged in a town square setting. There is a library building, a general store, even an old railroad caboose. There is a very large forest preserve behind the little town which we reach by walking down a dirt road an old farmer uses to reach his fields of corn and soybeans. Huge old growth trees grow in profusion along the road. At the top of a hill is an old orchard with trees tumbled down now but the apples are still good.

"Hey Dad, let's go check out the barn," Chris says. We stop and pick a couple good apples hanging ripe on the trees and munch on them as we wander down by the old barn that sits huddled in a meadow at the bottom of the hill. It looks forlorn and worn, but somehow it is right where it's supposed to be too. Fading back to the forest from which it sprang. Weeds grow in profusion around the tumbling walls but the old roof is still sound. We poke around in it. The day is warm but not uncomfortably so. A nice breeze blows and we can feel it through the weathered siding of the barn. After we satisfy our curiosity that there is nothing worth having in the old barn (even though we've been over it a hundred times before anyway), we wander on down the dirt road, further into the preserve.

"Dad, what are trees?"

"Well I tell you Chris, that's some question. First I suppose you could say they are plants. But I know you know that already." He nods his head. Yeah. It's one of those questions. "Trees are Quality. That's the best way I can put it. We know what trees are. We can reach out and feel the tough texture of their bark. We can listen to them talk. But the funny thing is, when we really try and say what the tree is, we can't."

Chris is looking at me funny now. Like he knows I am trying to snow him but he hasn't figured out how yet. I tell him, "Let's take a break for a bit. We'll sit on this rock up here." An enormous boulder lays just off the path and we walk to it. I pull out a candy bar and break it in half.

"Look at it this way Chris. Tell me what this candy tastes like."

"Sure!" He takes the candy and bites into it, chewing it thoughtfully and slowly.

"Well?" I ask, my eyebrows raised.

"Give me a minute. I'm thinking." He takes another bite and again chews slowly. I can almost see the gears working in his head. "It tastes good," he says, almost under his breath.

"Yes! This candy does taste good! When we say the candy is good it means the same thing as when I say trees are Quality. They are the Quality of our experience. We taste the trees with our eyes like our mouths taste the candy."

"So saying candy tastes good is the same thing as saying what a tree is? I don't get it."

Nothing like an eight year old to mess up a perfectly good analogy, I think to myself. "Well, I can see your point Chris." I start out, improvising as I go, carefully checking each word I say for incongruities. But they are too numerous. I had better just give up while I am even. A child's mind nimbles way ahead of my own far more settled thinking. "Let's just say the 'thing' that makes candy taste good and the 'thing' that makes a tree a tree is our experience of each. And we will call that 'thing' Quality. That's what makes our world what it is. Does that make more sense to you?"

"Yeah, I think so."

I laugh at the look of knotted consternation on his brow and hug him close to me as we sit. "You don't sound too sure. I guess I'm not too sure either. We'll talk of it more later. What do you say, want to move on a bit?" I ask, leaping off the rock. "Yeah, I'm ready!" he replies, big grin on his face. The trail wanders up and down over gentle rises with paths breaking off every now and again. We know them all by heart, for we've walked these trails a hundred times or more, winter, spring, summer and fall. The sky is blue overhead with large white fluffy clouds floating slowly by, which we can see through the break in the trees overhead. Sunlight streams down in the forest around us. About a mile down the road the farm ends and turns into forest preserve.

"Hey Dad, let's cut across the woods here."

"Ok, let's do it." The squirrels play in the sparse undergrowth beneath the great towering trees overhead. The way we chose takes us through heavily forested hills but the going is easy. The grade is steady downhill. Old leaves crackle under our feet and we walk in and out through bright streaks of sunshine piercing the forest canopy. Chris kicks along ahead of me but slows up when he sees me lagging. No hurry today.

"Let's head for the big hill Dad." I motion with my chin my agreement. A nonchalant movement easily missed if someone is unaware of it. Kind of a secret code we share from our time in the forest together. There are dozens of little movements that communicate without words what we wish to communicate. We all use them if we are aware of  them or not.

We walk deep into the preserve, way in the back where a large moraine lies. We've dug arrowheads here many times and have quite a collection now. Well, at least we think some are arrowheads. We've also sat back here late into the night in the dead of winter with a roaring campfire going, watching the silent snow fall all around us, hissing into the flames. A campfire is a wonderful thing on a cold winter night. Putting it out and walking away is a very chilling experience, every time. But just sitting there, deep in the woods, deep in the silence with snow falling all around. Ah now.

But as I said, this day is splendid. Simply gorgeous. We walk to the top of the moraine, a tough climb. At the top a ridge runs like a path. We stand there looking over the top of the forest. "My high school geology teacher told us that big glaciers make these hills. Is that right Dad?"

"Well, I expect your teacher knows more  about things like that than I do. But it looks to me as if it were water that made this particular hill. See how its narrow at one end and wider at the other? Make believe that tons of water were washing through here, higher than the trees. See how it carved the land out?"

"Yeah. That seems like it might be what made this hill, all right. But where did all that water come from?"

"Maybe when your teacher's glacier melted, Chris!" We both laugh. "Seriously though, I can't really say. There's alot about the earth we can't explain and maybe we will never be able to explain it."

We kick stones and talk. We talk about the trees and how they creak when we sit really quiet. How the wind rushes through the treetops and if you close your eyes and really listen, it sounds like the breath of God. We find several nice rocks but no arrowheads today. It hasn't rained and arrowhead hunting is always best done after a good rain. But we continue looking anyway.

"Hey Dad. Do ghosts live in places like this?" The question kind of brings me up short. Why would he ask that? Hmmm.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't really know Chris. I have heard that in the old days when Native Americans lived on this land that they believed in spirits. And these spirits inhabited wild and remote places like this. Now, these spirits were not bad, nor were they good. They could be either depending on the heart of the person who saw them or felt them."

"So they won't hurt you if you don't hurt them?"

"Well, it's not quite like that either. Most times we never see them and so they never see us either. But sometimes, like when the sun is just going down or coming up, they come out to play. Most people might just see a mist or feel a breeze on their face and not know what it is. And to the spirit the person would just feel like a obstruction in their path. They wouldn't realize it was a person at all."

"But what if the spirit knew it was a person? What would happen then?"

"Well Chris, ancient medicine men used to use the spirits by recognizing them. If they wanted to stay awake all night, they would rouse a wind spirit and it would blow in their face all night, giving them strength and keeping them awake. And if they wanted to travel unheard through the forest, the wind spirit would cover their tracks and no one could hear them walking."

"Are there other kinds of spirits too?"

"Many kinds. Sometimes the medicine men would use strings to call them. They would tie a rock to the end of a string and twirl it around their heads, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Until they got just the right sound. And soon the spirit would approach. Different places have different spirits. The medicine men would travel day and night and sleep out under the stars and learn all about the land and its secrets."

"Can we do that sometime?"

"Hey you know, I'd like that," I smile and take him by the shoulder. Creeks run through the valleys surrounding us, all meeting up in a five pointed fork below us. "Let's walk down and play in the creek, want to?"

"Sure!" he says.

The way down is easier than going up. We just jump in big leaping bounds, grabbing trees on our way down to steady ourselves. It's a learned knack not without its mishaps. The creeks meander all along the bottom of the valleys and have carved out deep undercuts in the banks. The water is crystal clear and cool as we walk through it, splashing ankle deep as we survey the creek bed for interesting rocks. We come to a place with a natural seat carved out of the bank by the water and take off our shoes. We sit, letting the creek wash over our feet. I smoke a cigarette while Chris tosses pebbles in the water. The sun is very warm on us and the water very cool. A nice contrast. The sandy bank where we sit is damp and our butts are soon wet but no matter.

"Dad, how come no one else is ever out here like us?"

I think a moment on this. He is right, of course. We've been coming out here for years and we have never run into anyone else. "Well, that's a good question Chris. I guess that most people enjoy the comforts of technology more than they do tromping around in the woods. And this place here is way off the beaten path you know. Most people probably don't even know it's here."

I look at him and I see my answer hasn't satisfied his curiosity. I can again almost see the mental gears working in his head. "What's technology?" he asks. I realize he is asking something else altogether. He's quit throwing pebbles now and is sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, rocking back and forth in a little indentation in the sand.

"The clothes we have on is technology. So's our car and the food we eat. Our house is technology. So's your school and my work. Most everything we do is technology, Chris. And some people come to believe that that's all there is. Technology is man's workings which we have somehow separated from the workings of nature. Look at the birds. What do you see?"

He stops rocking and looks up at the trees.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well, do you ever see a bird wearing clothes?"

Chris giggles at this. "No."

"And squirrels? Do they ever wear clothes?"

"No. But Aunt Sally's dog Rufus wears clothes sometimes!"

"Now. Let's talk about Rufus for a minute. Poor old Rufus is trapped in technology too. He spends all his time inside and Aunt Sally just lets him out to go potty and he comes right back in. He never runs through the woods chasing rabbits. The same thing happens to people, Chris. They get trapped in technology and forget the fun to be had in just chasing rabbits, even though we wouldn't know what to do if we caught one. Just like old Rufus. Sometimes it's good to run in the woods chasing rabbits though. In a way that's what we are both doing out here today walking around in the woods talking about  the trees."

"Dad."

"Yes Chris."

"I like walking in the woods with you."

I tousle his hair and grab him and hug him. "You know Chris, I like walking in the woods with you too."

My cigarette is finished and I bury the butt under a rock. We dry our feet in the grass and put on our shoes, then we meander along with the creek, following it upstream. The land rises gently ever higher and higher and we come out at the top of a rise which looks out over the forest we've just emerged from. We are close to the highway now and we can hear cars whizzing past, their tires screaming on pavement as they go by in a whir. We stand on a rise and look down at them all flying by in a hurry to get somewhere.

"Where do you suppose all those cars are going Chris?"

"I don't know."

"Guess."

"To work maybe? To the store?"

"Those are good answers Chris. Yes you're probably right. Each car driving past has an agenda. Their own private quest for something. They're all in a hurry to get somewhere, anywhere, and they whiz pass this forest without giving a thought to what it is or why it's here. The people in those cars all have priorities in their lives that prevent them from seeing what's really important sometimes. We have to work at remembering, I guess. That's why we never see anyone else out here when we come out walking around. We had to sneak off  today to come out here, remember?"

"Yeah," and he gives me this effortedly forced smile of his which he does each time before hitting me with a zinger, raises his eyes and looks at me. "I still don't understand though. How come we can't just do what we want instead of what someone else wants?"

The sun is very warm, I think to myself. And the breeze cool on my face. Cars keep rushing by, semi trucks too, growling like mad demons and belching black smoke in the air. "Well Chris, I guess I could tell you about being responsible. You've heard that song and dance before though, haven't you?" He tugs his ear and and smiles and waits for me to speak again. "One reason we do what others want us to do is because we love them. We care about other people. Can you think of another reason we might do something someone else wants us to instead of what we want?"

Chris is rocking back and forth on his feet rhythmically now. He puts his hand down and stops rocking but doesn't look at me. Instead he watches the cars go by as he speaks. "Well I don't love my teacher and I do what she wants. At least I try. Sometimes I don't see the point though. I don't know why we have to learn what we learn. Why do we have to go to school anyway?"

"Remember the old barn we mess in all the time? A long time ago a family like ours lived here and they built that barn and farmed all this land around here. A boy like you would have to be out of bed by dawn and milking the cows. Then he would have chores all day long. A big farm like this always needs work done. A boy like you would work outside all day long and your sisters would be working all day long inside the house, cooking and cleaning and making clothes. There was no time for school, especially during the summer. That's why you have a summer vacation every year."

"Wow. I just thought summer vacations were for doing nothing." He's looking at me now as it dawns on him. "You mean I would have had to work all summer?"

We both look back to the passing cars below us. "See how lucky you are? School is to give you knowledge. To help you organize it and broaden your world. Today we have more time for things like learning and knowing about things. But we give up something too."

"Like being a medicine man and learning about the forest? Is that knowledge too?"

"It's a different kind of knowledge. We learn things in all different ways. Like tasting candy and seeing trees. You like learning about the forest and trees, don't you?"

"But it's not like what we learn in school. This is fun!"

"Well, from knowledge comes wisdom. Wisdom is all different kinds of knowledge rolled up into one. Some knowledge is difficult to learn and some is fun because we are learning without really trying. You and me wandering around these woods is a learning experience too."

"I still don't get it Dad... "

"Well, look at it this way. When you get a birthday present you've really been wishing for, what do you do?"

"I play with it!" A big grin is splitting Chris's face now. It's not too long until his birthday.

"Sure you do! And when people grow up they play with life that way. They start thinking that life as they know it is all there is. Like a shiny new birthday present that they've been wanting for a long time. But what happens after a couple days when you've played with your new present?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it still as much fun as it was that first day?"

"Well, no. It seems like whatever I get never does what I think it will. Having the present isn't as much fun as wanting it, I guess?"

"Chris, try and hang onto that feeling because you are so right. Most people forget that. They make that shiny present the goal of their lives and they forget how much fun it is in discovering new things. They forget that it's more fun to imagine than it is to make things real. So they spend their whole lives trying to make things real instead of making believe. That's why all the cars are racing by here without a second thought about these trees and creeks and valleys here."

We stand watching the cars, then turn and look back at the forest. A breeze blows over the treetops and the meadow grasses, waving them in unison. Cloud shadows chase each other over the wavy green.

"That's why the ghosts hide out here, isn't it?"

"You're probably right. Ghosts aren't real. They stay in places where only imagination can find them, like this place. Ghosts can't exist where everything is real. People know that too, in a way. Maybe not know it like we know how to brush our teeth or comb our hair, but they know it in the sense that what is real is all that is important. Most people are scared of ghosts."

"I'm not."

I laugh and hug him. "Me either Chris."

We reverse our direction and head back down into the forest away from the noisy highway. The trees swallow up the car sounds and soon we are back on the path to the house.