Jungle Expedition

“I like to explore,” I delclared. Do you suppose we should we go explore a spot you’ve never been?”

With wide eyes, Thomas, my five year-old grandson slowly nodded.

“We are going to walk to a jungle.”

Wrinkling his forehead in confusion, he asked, “What? A jungle? Here?”

Thomas was visiting Minnesota from his home in Tacoma, Washington for the annual summer Opa and Nana Camp. 

Earlier in the day, he had climbed down the ladder from the loft  in our little log cabin. Both he and his sister fondly refer to the loft as “the nest.” 

At breakfast, he wondered how I came to be called “Opa.” I shared that it was a title my own father had owned when he was a grandfather. So it only made sense that I should follow suit when I became a grandpa.

I asked him if he would like to grow up and be like Opa. 

Very matter-of-factly he replied, “I have to be. He is walking inside my mind. He is in me.”

Then, with a wry smile, I asked him “Do you think one of your first words spoken as a baby was Opa?”

“No.”

“Oh I suppose it was Mama or Dada?”

“Nope.”

He looked right at me and in all seriousness reminded me of his first words.

“Flower in my heart so bright.”

As matter-of-factly as I could I soberly answered, “Oh yeah, I forgot that.”

After the invitation to go on a jungle exploration, we pushed away from the table and got ready for an adventure. 

“Well,” I said, “ on this hike you will have to use your imagination a little bit.”

I was reminded of such a wilds when I was a youngster. We lived in town until I was in third grade. About a block from our Main Street home, across the street from the Methodist Church, was an overgrown vacant lot. We called it “the grassy green jungle” and it was the nearby wilds where we created trails and tales. Jungles can grip the imagination. 

Thomas and I strolled slowly down our long driveway that is flanked by hedges of brush and trees. The expedition was slow as there were numerous pauses for close looks at little things that only he spotted. At the mailbox, we turned left on the gravel township road and walked perhaps thirty yards before we left the road and walked into our neighbor’s cornfield. 

“This Thomas, is a lush, very green jungle of corn.” I guided him to a row where he was flanked by tall stalks much taller than he.

He asked, “Can we eat this corn?” 

I paused before replying “No. But people kind of eat it because most of this corn is fed to animals that we eat like cattle, pigs and chickens. And a bunch is used to make fuel for cars and sugar for pop.”

“Do any animals live in here?”

“Nope,” I said, “nothing but corn. 

Why aren’t there other plants, like trees and flowers?

“Because only corn was planted and then certain chemicals were sprayed on the ground to keep all other plants from growing. 

“Aren’t there even any bugs?”

“Well if you look close you might see some but otherwise it is not very good for anything but corn. You won’t even find worms if you dig into the ground here.”

Thomas stood just looking at the corn like it was an alien. I wondered if I should tell him that in fact the corn is an alien. 

Before settlement, there was no corn or any other agricultural crops growing here. The closest crop that would have been found here before Europeans moved here would have likely been the wild rice crop that grew less than a mile east of us. And that crop would have required no chemicals or tilling from the indigenous people who lived here and harvest the native rice for thousands of years.

I waved him to go ahead and walk into the corn. “Stay in the row you are on and we can walk to our neighbor’s house so you can meet him.” 

 He hesitated. “No need to worry,” I comforted, “I’ll be in another row just a short distance from you.”

Thomas managed to move a few extra rows distant from me but I could see his hurried path among the jostling corn stalks as he scurried towards my steady banter. After five minutes of jungle trodding we broke out into the bright sunlight and into the neighbor’s yard. Not all jungle expeditions take days or weeks.

I introduced Thomas to neighbor, Dennis out in his pole building where we found him rattling on some riding mower maintenance. As expected the five-year old was mostly shy. I was surprised that he was more intrigued with the dusty life-sized plastic Christmas carolers stored on a high shelf above the shovels, rakes and chain saws. I would have thought the John Deere tractor or the chain saws might have caught his attention.

Dennis suggested that Thomas go around to the front yard to the old hand pump and see if he could pump up some water and maybe some frogs. And with that intriguing invitation Thomas quickly grasped my hand and pulled me to the old pump.

We goth grabbed the long handle and began pumping. Soon water came pulsing out of the spout into the bucket. Squeals erupted when a frog suddenly came flushing out of the spout like a summer kid flying down a slide at a water park. It swam in the bucket and all pumping was halted for frog inspection.

I explained it was a tree frog and that it had super powers. 

“Really? Super powers?” 

“Well, almost,” I explained. It can change the color of its skin so it can blend in to its surroundings. This is a super power that hides it so predators might not see it or to help it more easily catch bugs to eat.”

I pointed out the tiny rounded toe pads and told Thomas that this frog could walk up a pane of glass, kind of like Spiderman.”

The explorer’s response of “Cool!” was reward enough for this day of jungle adventure.