That Old Oak Tree

The day my older sisters became heroes. One day in the summer of 1961, we went outside to play, same as we always did when there wasn’t anything else to do and the day stretched out in front of us. Our little troupe consisted of Sandy, my oldest sister at about eight years old, Cindy right behind her at seven, me at six, and my youngest brother Dan—just about two years old, but determined to hang with us older kids no matter what we were doing. Not far from the house was a stand of oak trees, and one of them was our favorite to climb. It wasn’t an easy tree—not for kids our size. The first branch sat just out of my reach, high enough to make it a challenge every time. But Sandy had it figured out. She’d jump, grab hold of that branch, and muscle her way up until she could swing herself onto the limb. Then she’d reach back down and pull Cindy and me up after her like it was just part of the routine. That day, Dan had tagged along with us. He stood at the base of the tree, looking up, watching us climb. You could see it on his face—he wanted to be up there with us. Feeling sorry for him, I climbed back down, with Sandy coming down behind me. I hung from the branch for a second and then dropped to the ground beside him. Once I landed, I wrapped my arms around Dan and lifted him up, telling him to reach for Sandy’s hand as she leaned down toward us. The moment he made contact, she grabbed hold of him tight and pulled, while I pushed from below with everything I had. It didn’t seem like it should’ve worked—but somehow it did. Unbelievably, we got him up onto that first limb. Once he was there, something took over in him. Whatever hesitation he might’ve had disappeared. His natural instinct kicked in, and he started climbing—branch to branch—like he belonged there just as much as the rest of us. There were spots where the branches were too far apart for him to reach on his own, and each time one of us would step in—giving him a hand, guiding him, helping him find his way upward. Before long, we had climbed higher than we probably should have. Ok. I guess that was really at that first branch. At one point, we were about fifteen feet off the ground. I had made my way above Dan and turned back, reaching my hand down to help him up to the next branch. Sandy was a branch or two below him, close enough to help if he needed it. Dan stretched upward, reaching for my hand— And then he slipped. Everything seemed to slow down. I can still see it—him looking up at me as he fell backward, his body dropping away from the branch, his eyes locked on mine the whole way down. Then suddenly, movement. As he fell past her, Sandy reached out and caught his ankle, gripping it tight while bracing herself against the tree with her other arm. She stopped his fall. Dan was hanging upside down, his head pointed toward the ground, his small body swinging slightly as Sandy held on with everything she had. Cindy didn’t hesitate. She climbed quickly down below him while Sandy kept her grip. Once Cindy got into position, she reached up, grabbed hold of Dan, and pulled him toward the tree. “Grab it!” she urged. Dan managed to get his hands on the trunk, pulling himself in as Sandy let go of his ankle. With Cindy steadying him, he worked his way upright until his feet were back on the branch. For a moment, none of us moved. Then, without much discussion, we all knew what needed to happen next. We climbed down. Carefully this time. Slowly. Making sure every step was solid until we were all back on the ground again. That was enough climbing for one day. In the end, it turned out alright. No one was hurt. No blood, no broken bones—nothing to show for it except the memory of how close it could have gone the other way. Mom never found out about it. And for a long while, that was just fine with us.