Only a few years ago, I was not the person I am now. My name may have been the same, and I can recall experiences from that person, and I can put myself in the shoes in that person, and I still share a few of the friends as that person, I share the same family and friends as that person, but despite all of this, all of these bizarre and unexplainable coincidences, we are by no means the same. The person I am is someone who struggles with deadlines, expectations, pressures; concepts that the other Timothy wouldn’t even be able to comprehend. The other Timothy experienced the freedom of being able to let loose and have fun. No responsibilities, besides the occasional house chore. He could play games with his friends for hours, binge a whole season of anime, and in the few weeks of summer where the Hammond weather was habitable, he could spend the entire day outside, playing among the trees of the local woodlands. And among those trees was a large Oak, held into the ground by only a few determined roots.

On a summer day in 2013, myself and a few of my friends had found this Oak tree, being held up in this bizarre position, mere feet away from toppling to the ground. The effort of the last remaining roots allowed the tree to seemingly float in the air, allowing for a small bit of leaf cover over a small circular area, forming a natural canopy of sorts. It was here, under this great fighting Oak tree, where we established our clubhouse, dubbed the “Hangout” for it not only being a great hangout spot for the group, but because we were able to physically hang from the tree overhead. Over the next few hours, we would explore the nearby area and fully establish the woods as our own little territory. A bunch of kids had free reign over nearly two miles of woodland, and with no one to say otherwise, we conquered it, with our mighty blades, which were of course sticks we had picked up from the forest floor.

This group that had founded the Hangout consisted of my childhood friend DeAnna, who I still talk with daily as she recovers from her leg surgery; Mickey, DeAnna’s cousin who would always follow her around everywhere she went; Liliana, one of my earliest friends, who I have unfortunately drifted apart from over the years, and Julie, my younger sister, who for as ditzy and impressionable as she is I still love to death.

These people, alongside myself, would cherish this great paradise, the woodland expanse and the many things to be found inside it. There was, of course, the Elder Lake, which was really just a large rain puddle only a foot deep but surprisingly expansive. Further down the trail to the south lay a small sandhill, reformed with the tread marks of ATVs and dirtbikes, in which I can recall we attempted to encircle with our bicycles before inevitably getting stuck on the paramount.
A small entrance-way out of this sandhill clearing laid the great fallen Oak of the Hangout, conveniently placed nearby the middle point of the woods treeline, directly facing 138th Street. If you decide to trudge down the muddy trail further, you would eventually find a fire pit, with proper stones and the distant remains of a lit fire. And at the very end of the trail, the trees would open up to a lush, dreamy meadow, where many bumblebees and distinct flowers wavered in the wind. Continue through the direction the trail would have led and you will eventually hit the chainlink fence of the Hammond Mohawks lot.

The meadow is the setting for a particular memory, in which the group would play hide and seek. I had used my small “Obama phone” as they were called as a walkie-talkie of sorts, on a call with DeAnna, on the hiding team. We would taunt each other, although the purpose of the call was for safety, as we didn’t want anyone to get lost. At the time, the woodlands seemed big to us, although looking back in retrospect, you can most likely find another person through shouting out in around thirty seconds.

I also recall when we had first founded the Hangout, in which a decrepit loveseat lay alongside the hanging leaves of the Oak. We all had to try our hardest to lift the seat and carry it only a few feet away inside the canopy, but it took nearly a half an hour. After it was in, no one would dare sit in it. Simply the fact that we were able to accomplish the task and furnish our clubhouse was rewarding, and made the small dirt patch under a nearly toppled tree become a luxury suite. Later on, we would find a mattress dumped in the woods and carry it to the clubhouse to lay alongside the seat, although again no one ever dared sit on it.
After nearly two years of use, the Hangout began to become less exciting. As we grew up, so did our passions, and we were less excited for a tree as we were going into middle school. This would all come to a head when on our last club meeting with everyone present, Mickey would fall out of the overhead tree and break his arm. After that, DeAnna and Mickey were forever banned from the Hangout by their parents. Soon after, Liliana would fade away from the clubhouse as well, and with the club gone I would soon abandon it as well.

Today, the tree is still present, however its battle was lost with time. Now it lays a few feet of high grass, weeds, a few dandelions and the great Oak as a large log. The loveseat and mattress, however, still remain. The Hangout was no more, and looking back, it was for the best.
I recall the Hangout for a few reasons. It was a bonding experience for us, and the itch of exploration I had as a child was definitely scratched among those great woods. But for me, what the Hangout most represents is myself, in a way.

The childhood wonder is gone. What remains is now a distant memory of what once was, what the other Timothy lived and experienced. And as the tree lays there abandoned, awaiting to be visited, my memories of those times live on just the same. And although the tree may have fallen in the end, as the battle for childhood was lost with time, the impressions and actions of the people there before still remain, the old loveseat and mattress, as the impressions and actions of the people I have met and were raised around still lay in my soul, and my actions.

The Hangout is not gone. It’s still there, laying in disarray and abandoned. Yet on rare occasions, it should be revisited, remembered, and cherished, as my childhood memories should be as well. God bless the mighty Oak, toppled by time.