My Hill

My Hill

The home I grew up in, in Kennesaw, is situated in a neighborhood built on Pine Mountain. When we first saw the house with the realtor my Mom looked through her future bathroom window and saw my little brother Gage scaling the orange dirt hill in the backyard and nearly had a heart attack. In comparison with our former home in flat Houston Texas this hill was an enormous adventure.  We climbed it and explored the woods. Around the bend of the hill we found a creek we loved. We created all sorts of games for the hill violent and otherwise. My middle brother Austin used to ride down it using his bubble butt like a sled. I did not participate in the most violent of hill sports, called King of the Hill. That game entailed a man on man wrestling match to see who could push the other off of the hill. I did however throw many dirt bombs (which are just big dry clumps of dirt).

            As a young teenager the hill’s meaning changed for me. It was no longer a place of adventure but of solitude and escape. I was battling my introversion pretty hard back in those days. Whenever I was forced to talk to a loud person or order pizza on the phone I would have these panic fits. My parents worried and pushed wondering how such a strange bird would be able to interact with the general population on her own. They would say “Sydney how are you going to do mission work if you can’t even talk to a stranger on the phone?” I would cry and tearfully shout, “Moses had a speech impediment!” Then I would run to my hill and sit under my big half-dead tree. When I looked out I could see the trees and down across my whole neighborhood. I felt safe in my solitude and I would cry alone until I was calm.

            I went up on my hill again today and tried to look out on my former world. I stood by my dear tree and discovered my view now obscured by a mini forest of young pines that have been growing for several years now. Peering through these young trees I wonder at how much my hill and I have changed and grown. What was once a giant mound of Georgia clay is now a young forest green and lively. I no longer need to run away from pizza men and loud talkers (while I still may not like them). I have learned how to teach and to express myself, to act and think with confidence. Then I think maybe my hill and I look a little different but maybe we are really still the same. My hill still has dirt that is cold on my butt when I sit down. Birds still sing up there and soothe my heart. The sun still shines down and paints its golden streaks into my dark strawberry blonde hair. And I am still a girl who runs away from life to sit alone on a hill.