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I was a tough child. Not mean, just tough. We were still living in Lynnwood at the time of this incident, so I could not have been more than 6 years old. We lived on a dead-end street of 1950’s era homes, many of which were inhabited by families with children. It was a time when children really played outdoors all day: in the street, in the backyard, and in what we lovingly called “the woods”, but which was really just a greenbelt behind our houses where the open sewer “crick” ran. “The woods” was our favorite playground.
Next door to us was a girl the same age as me named Debbie Love (pictured below in our kindergarten class). Her name was appropriate because she was a sweet and sensitive child, i.e. nothing like me. She and I would probably not have been playmates or friends had we not been next door neighbors since we were polar opposites in nature.
One day, while out playing together, I cajoled Debbie into climbing a large tree with me. She whined and complained all the way up, while I encouraged her to keep going, keep going. Once she joined me on the high branch, I considered our adventure done and I was bored, so I began to climb down. Although I had been able to talk her into climbing UP the tree, I was unable to persuade her to climb DOWN the same tree. By the time I got to the bottom, I apparently had other things to do and forgot all about poor Debbie, stranded in the tree.
When it got dark (don’t hate me; I was only 6), her parents appeared at our front door, looking for Debbie because she hadn’t shown up for dinner. My mom called me over, asking when I last saw her. I said, “Last time I saw her, she was up in the tree out back.” Her parents gasped and then raced out there. They found her clinging to the tree and crying and they rescued her by ladder.
That might have been the last time I saw her. They moved.
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