Holly Skogen Park

 My son sometimes runs away from school. Sometimes he is raging, or feels unsafe—but sometimes, he simply gets a sudden urge to see something new, different, to escape the sameness of his surroundings. He feels trapped, and who can blame him?  So he runs.

He attends a day treatment program about 20 minutes from our home. It’s a town I’ve driven through thousands of times on my way to the nearby state park or the Twin Cities, but one where I have rarely stopped.

One time, when we were debriefing one of these episodes, I asked him for the first time where exactly he went. “To Holly Skogen Park,” he said, in a tone that suggested I should have known this. “It’s my holy place.”

I was completely confused. I’d lived in the area for more than 20 years and loved state and city parks, but had never heard of this one. I asked him to tell me about it, but he shrugged and said, “I like to go there to talk to the trolls.”

Well, I thought, my son has a great imagination. You would think I would have looked up the park right away, but he abruptly changed the subject to his favorite basketball player, and I temporary forgot about this mysterious park that may or may not exist.

And so, on a sunny afternoon—the Saturday before Advent began, in fact—we were driving toward the state park when I asked if he wanted to stop at Holly Skogen Park. He directed me to it.

It was no surprise that I’d never seen it. Although it was nestled close to the two lane highway that goes from our small town all the way to the freeway, it wasn’t visible to passers-by.

We entered the park, and I immediately realized what he’d meant about trolls. The first troll we encountered was nestled next to a park bench close to the entrance. “Hi, old buddy,” he said, patting him on his pointy hat.

He walked on toward a bridge that was so old it appeared to be sinking into the small creek below it. There was a troll sitting on the edge of the bridge, looking down into the water. Like the first troll, the brightly colored paint that once made him stand out was all worn off. My son stood above him, leaned over, and looked down into the water, wearing the same expression of total peace that the troll wore.

 My son stopped to greet each troll. “This is a magical place, for sure,” I said at some point, and he said, “I told you so.”

We drew close to a small structure with a dilapidated, wooden angel on top. Her hands were clasped in front of her, as if begging me to be present. I stared up at her for awhile. My son stood beside me, also looking up.

“Tomorrow, Advent begins,” I said.  

“I can’t wait to light the first candle,” he replied, and then his body was suddenly activated with excitement. He began to circle the old farm equipment scattered around the park, climbing onto each tractor, thrasher, and combine. He stepped gingerly on the creek, which was covered with a thin layer of ice, and watched as his foot sunk through.

I realized suddenly that it had been a long time since my son ran away from his school. He’s growing up quickly, and this year he spends some of his time at our local school down the street—a slow but promising transition.

He ran up a small incline toward a troll who was cooking over a small stove. He opened the lid and handed me a note. “Is this your stove?” it read, in a child’s script. I read it to him, and we both laughed.

Just as I finished the above paragraph, my son emerged from the door that separates the upstairs from the downstairs. I am sitting in front of our Christmas tree in the dark, where I’ve sat to write all of these reflections. He nestled into the chair next to me, pulling the blanket that is around my shoulders around his own, stretching it beyond its size.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Writing about Holly Skogen Park,” I say.

“Did you write about the part where I lifted that stove and there was a note inside?” His face lights up with a faraway smile.

“In fact, I just finished telling that part of the story.”

“And then I came down.”

“Then you came down.”

He begins to hum “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch,” and I say, “let me just finish this, and then I’ll get you some breakfast.”

“I just want to sit here, Mom. Let’s not get up yet. Let’s just remember that day and smile about it.” We sat in silence for awhile, and then he said, “I don’t run away from school anymore. Nowadays we can just go there whenever we want and enjoy it and there won’t be any police.”

“That makes it better, doesn’t it?”

“I used to wait on a bench wondering if they would call you and you’d come get me.”

“They always called, but by the time I got in my car, they had always found you.”

“Because I always went to the same place,” he said, smiling. “On purpose.” He paused for awhile. “I liked going there by myself, but I like going there with you even better,“ he says. “You saw the magic, didn’t you?”

“I did.” We stare at the tree for awhile, and then I ask, "How should I end this essay, so we can get some breakfast?"

"Oh, I know," he says, “Write this: think of all the magical places we can go to again and again in our long lives!”