Located outside the town proper of little Bellefontaine, Ohio, you wouldn’t think this town was the first place to have a concrete street in America. But as you look around at the trees - towering oaks, conifers in varying shades of yellow, orange, red, and green - that make up the forest, the wide, open fields across the way, the cornfields down the road… it’s not hard to believe that this is a small farming community.

That’s not really important. What you really want to focus on is your aunt and uncle’s property. Or what was still your aunt and uncle’s last time you visited; now it’s your cousin’s. You’re almost sure nothing has changed in the four years since you’ve been. After all, nothing much changed in the eighteen years prior. It’s a point of consistency when everything else is constantly changing around you, a place of calm where you can relax.

There’s always been the nearly empty front yard, occupied only by a single big oak, whose branches arch over the grass and the gravel driveway, where everyone has parked their cars. The path leading round back, lined with small bushes, is just the same. When you reach the backyard, you see the sun reflecting off the tin roof of the large red shed that stands at the top of the hill. In front of the shed are its usual occupants, the tractor and the trailer that you always use to take food, chairs, and other supplies too heavy or difficult to carry down to the fire pit in the woods.

You turn around and are faced with the back of the house, or the enclosed porch to be more precise. To get inside you have to take the screen door that has been difficult to open for as long as you can remember; when you were little an adult had to do it for you, otherwise the cats would get out and one of them was indoor only. Once you hear the click, you look up and see the door across from you leading into the living room, the old armchair next to it, and the table to your left laden with food, plates, and cutlery to be put in the trailer, and the door beyond the table that leads to the kitchen. You take off your shoes by the screen door and head to the door into the kitchen. Before you even reach the large step in front of the door, let alone open it, you can smell the sides cooking. When you do open the door and step inside, you’re assaulted with the scent of cheesy potatoes - cheese, garlic, onions, ham, your aunt’s personal recipe. Your aunt’s taking the pan out of the oven and replacing the foil on top so no heat escapes on the trip down to the fire. You ask if she needs any help as you’re enveloped in a soft, warm hug, but she shoos you out of the kitchen and back to the porch, saying things just need to be loaded into the trailer. So, you put your shoes back on, pick up a few things on the table, and take them outside.

Once everything is loaded, you start the walk down the hill, weaving through the sparse trees up here, a feat no less simple in the dead of night. When you were small you liked to ride in the back of the trailer as your aunt drove it down, but now you like the walk. On the way down, you pass by the tree stump with the salt lick for the deer. You’ve never seen one while you’ve been here, but you know they like to pass through the yard on their way to the other side of the woods.

You veer to the left; away from the cleared path that the tractor trailer has to take, and instead head into clearing through the small space between the trees that everyone takes as a shortcut (or as a way to jump out at people late at night). When you step through you see Uncle poking at the fire to get it started for the hot dogs and hamburgers he always cooks. Even though he’s just getting it started, you can already smell the pine as the smoke drifts through the crisp breeze. Around the fire are the chairs that have been set up by your parents and cousins, as well as the logs that are used for additional seating, which will be nice once night falls. The tractor trailer pulls up next to the empty picnic tables, where the others start to unload right away. They seem to have it handled, so you decide to stand and watch, to commit this to memory.

It’s a good-sized clearing, with plenty of space around the fire pit and the treeline all around, so there’s no risk of a forest fire. Off on the other side of the fire, opposite of the picnic tables, is the pile of wood to be used for the fire. Further across the clearing is a path in the trees that leads into the woods. There’s another closer to the picnic tables. You know from memories that these paths connect to each other, if you don’t get lost when traveling them late at night - which you never have. You decide you’ll go through those woods later, after the yearly scaring ritual has been done.

As you’ve been taking everything in for what seems the thousandth time, the Southern lilts of your family have been washing over you, fading into the background in their familiarity. But now you tune back in when you hear your name and wander over to your mom and aunt and cousins, wondering what they’re talking about.

It’s night now, the stars and moon out in full force. One of your favorite things about visiting has always been that you can see so many more stars, the sky absolutely filled to the brim. It’s especially nice now, since they built the strip mall down the street from home, where the lights are always on, blocking out this ethereal beauty. In front of you the fire crackles in oranges and yellows, adding to the white of the moon and stars. The pine wood smell is stronger now, mixing with the scent of the hot cocoa in the mug you hold in your hands. The ability to see the stars, to smell the wood smoke and clean air - they’re nice constants of these visits.

All around you the others are talking, multiple conversations weaving into one another. You sit there and let their voices wash over you, not feeling the need to join in. You don’t fail to hear your youngest cousins talking about going into the woods though. Or your dad and his cousins talking about going in at the same time. Looks like it’s time for the yearly scaring.

It’s not long before you see the younger ones head in through the path by the picnic tables, arguing amongst themselves like siblings tend to do. Then your dad and his cousins take the path hon the far side of the clearing. After a few minutes you hear a roar and a couple high-pitched screams, followed by raucous laughter. You smile and laugh to yourself. Once upon a time that was you, walking through the woods with your big brother and cousins, only to have your dad and his cousins jump out at you, roaring like a bear. Never once did you get scared and scream though; you were always the one laughing in glee as the others jumped and shouted in shock and fright. (You’ve never been easy to scare, even when you were just a few years old. You’ve always been too aware, too attuned to the sounds and movements around you.)

Since the ritual has been done, and all of the cousins are out and settled back in their seats, you decide it’s safe to go into the woods yourself now. You get up and head toward the closer path without anyone noticing, everyone too caught up in conversation and drink to see you walking through the shadows. The sounds of your family talking and laughing start to fade a little as the sounds of nature take over, the crickets, owls, and other nocturnals out. Their voices don’t fade too much though; it’s a relatively short distance to the clearing you’re headed for.

You walk through the woods without flashlight, having memorized these paths years ago. Even if you hadn’t, you would prefer walking through assisted only by the light of the moon shining through the branches. Otherwise, the wildlife would have run off again, when they had only just resettled after the scaring ritual. This way, with only nature surrounding you, it’s peaceful. In the woods - especially in woods you’ve basically grown up in - is one of the few places you feel free. You can breathe in the fresh, open air and let your mind wander without worrying about someone asking what’s wrong or what you’re thinking about; the animals are too busy with their own business to care about what you’re up to.

At the fork in the path you take a left, and smile to yourself again. The last time you took this path was with your brother with his girlfriend. You were all heading for the prairie clearing (without flashlights that time as well) and she questioned whether you knew where you were going. You laughed and said yes; the left leads to the prairie and the right goes further into the woods before reaching the creek. She didn’t believe you, probably because your brother couldn’t remember the way, but you reached the prairie all right. Just like you reach the prairie now.

You go into the middle of the clearing and lie down to stare up at the stars, part of you wishing you knew the constellations. Since you don’t, you close your eyes and listen to the sounds around you. The crickets chirping near and far, one right by your head. The occasional hoot of an owl. The faint crunching of leaves as opossums, raccoons, foxes, deer, and more wander through in search of food.

The voices and laughter of your family are still audible in the distance. They’re probably reminiscing or telling each other about the current goings on. You don’t feel like you’re missing out by being here in the prairie by yourself though. As much as you love seeing and spending time with your family, you still prefer these times of solitude to anything else. Here you can relax; you don’t have to be hyperaware anymore, even if just for a little bit.

You’ll head back soon, before someone notices you’re gone and gets worried when they don’t see you at the house either. Soon, you’ll go back to the fire. Right now though, it’s a nice, rare moment; lying here in the grass and flowers, the crisp and cool yet pleasant fall breeze caressing the bare skin of your hands, face, and neck, alone with your thoughts, the animals, and the stars.