Cardboard Hill
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| Field in Springtime Photo by Angela Marie Morton |
This post is different from my usual writings, in that it does not tie into art or creativity. Instead, this month I chose to write a brief recollection of a childhood memory that I felt was worth preserving on virtual paper.
Lying in bed, wide awake at 2am on a recent morning, a childhood memory I had not thought about for ages popped into my head: a place the local kids referred to as “Cardboard Hill”. It was near “The Rope Swing”, both of which were on a portion of undeveloped land behind our suburban housing development, in the East Bay of San Francisco. At the end of a cul de sac, there was an access point to a path that branched off in four directions: to the right, you were headed to a large community park, with several Weeping Willow-lined ponds, grassy spaces perfect for flying kites, and picnic tables. If you went up, you were led to “The Flag”; a Vietnam War memorial which overlooked the park, and was where the locals would congregate every Independance Day to watch the fireworks display put on by the city. If you went to the left (where this writing will lead us), you were eventually deposited onto a main road. And if you went down, you were on a steep hill, leading to another main street, home to several fast food eateries, including McDonald’s, hence this portion of the path’s name of “McDonald’s Hill”.
Veering off the path (the one to the left, remember) at just the right place, after walking straight for a short distance, there was a decline through fields of dry grass (fields are always dry in the Bay Area) on a beaten footpath leading down, down, down. Eventually, like a child’s version of Shangri-La, you would see The Rope Swing and the enormous tree it hung from. It was towards the bottom of the hill, but not all the way down, so when you got on the rope, you would pull as far back as possible at an incline, then swing way out over the bottom of the hill, soaring over the brush below.
None of us knew who hung the swing, who owned the land, or how Cardboard Hill came to be. It was quiet and just a little bit eerie, due to its seclusion, with the only noise being the steady hissing of that tall, dry grass blowing in the breeze. The derelict house, set back a bit at the very bottom of Cardboard Hill, with its hoarder-vibe backyard, complete with old tires, “keep out” signs, and large dog, all enclosed with falling down wire fencing, was a bit spooky.
To the left of the swing was my 2am memory, Cardboard Hill. Various pieces of cardboard, in different shapes and sizes were strewn about, mostly towards the bottom of the hill. You would select your piece, and make the hike to the top of the hill, walking next to the narrow dirt path that had been worn in the grass. At the top, you would sit or lay on your cardboard sled, push off (or have your friend give you a shove), and slide down the hill. Pure joy.
I do not know if The Rope Swing or Cardboard Hill are still there, but I suspect they are long gone. Unlike James Hilton’s fictional, mystical, Himalaya valley in Tibet, our childhood Shangri-la was real, but called by a different name: Cardboard Hill.
