Ever since I can remember, I’ve gone to my grandmother’s house in Rhode Island for Thanksgiving. Family and friends come together for a celebration and non-stop eating with leftovers for three days. As kids, my brother, sisters, and I always escaped the hedonistic feeding frenzy to go out and explore the woods behind Grandma’s house. Following the partly overgrown trail, we would skulk to our secret hideout and wait for the others to reach the clearing bordering the neighboring property. In the clearing, we would write our names in sticks or leave messages for fellow adventures just as our mom had done when she was a kid.
My brother sometimes trekked off the beaten path to look for new adventures. It didn’t matter that we were probably only about half a mile away; we felt as if we were explorers a million miles from home in a dangerous and exciting new world. It is a favorite childhood memory; as we grew up, our trips into the woods grew less frequent.
With time, walks around my own neighborhood, though less adventurous, replaced the voyages behind my grandma’s house. The frequent walks or runs in the quiet woods gave me lots of time to think about everything from school and future aspirations to homework and daily activities. It was a respite from the pleasantly chaotic environment of a six-person household, scholastic responsibility and an extra-curricular jungle. The woods protected my private thoughts from discovery. Each day, as I trudged up the final hill to my house and back to reality, I would bid adieu to the protection of the forest.
Recently, though, I realized our next encounter might never come. Although I had forgotten about my secret hideout, other people had not. A few years ago, there were bulldozers and house foundations. The next Thanksgiving, those houses were complete and more are in the works. Now, I can see the new neighbor’s deck from Grandma’s, and my walk along the old familiar paths is cut dishearteningly short. The first clearing where we used to write our names is no more.
At home over Christmas break, I was shocked to find my own neighborhood woods also razed, replaced by skeletal houses. Those miles and miles of peace and quiet were now full of bulldozers and dump trucks. It is hard to imagine how the place will look once all the houses are finished. But I know that day will come soon, and, on my next walk, I may have to keep my thoughts to myself.
Maybe development has been good for the area. Maybe the property value has gone up. But some of my most beloved childhood memories are destroyed, and this will, most likely, not be the last thing to change about both my grandma’s house and my own. I wish there was something I could do about this progressive betrayal on the part of the developers, but I fear that at this point, my complaints fall on deaf ears. Even those homeowners who, like my grandfather did, protest development, are given the run-around and are eventually defeated. As always, capitalism reigns. Money talks, and this has had its effects on lives all over the country and even across the world. With the growth in population, small town farms and forests are being replaced by cookie-cutter houses and asphalt driveways filled with shiny new cars.
And what of our forest friends? Deer are relegated to wandering the streets and squirrels make their homes in backyards instead of trees. This change in habitat is both unwelcome and dangerous, as the death toll of our furry neighbors rises after a gruesome car accident or other fatal incident. Development has destroyed thousands of acres of rainforests all over the world and can be blamed for a negative change in the global climate.
It is easy to dismiss the impersonal international effects of development; but I can’t really ignore that now, instead of driving along a forested road to my house, I drive through a construction site. Whether I take a proactive role in my fight against development or I sit back on my heels and let it go on, whatever happens, at least I know there will always be the leftovers.
