As a kid, we had three huge maple trees going in our backyard in Canada. On warm, windy, summer afternoons there was nothing better than climbing far enough up one of these monsters to feeling it gently pendulate and sway in the breeze. I loved it so much that I did it almost every day.
Two years my junior, Tim both figuratively (and when I was in the tree) literally looked up to me. And naturally he was inclined to join me in my climbing adventure. But there was one significant difference between us. When I had had enough, I simply climbed down. Tim, on the other hand, was like Catboy. Going up was never a problem, but coming down… impossible.
I’d often just leave him, arms wrapped around the swaying trunk, to think about his situation. But after a few moments his whaling would start to attract unwanted attention from the neighbors. So I’d get Dad, who would then have to climb up to Tim and guide him, branch by branch, back down to solid ground.
Summoned away from their afternoon tea and yard work by his calls of distress, I can only imagine what the neighbors must have thought about that Atkinson kid who got stuck in trees… daily.