I stare at the old newspaper clip of us kids sitting cross-legged around that rock fire pit and think about what a bunch of rascals we were.

It was the 1960s, and a photographer from the local newspaper stopped to snap a picture of us, looking proud with our teepees towering behind us.

Some logger had left big slivers of trees strewn around a field on our road in Skowhegan and, being the innovative creatures we were, we propped them up, one by one and made a village of teepees.

It was really a sight, those structures, which we crawled in and out of, hosted important conferences in and admired from afar.

Motorists would stop to watch us hauling those slabs around and propping them up into peaks, adding more to fill in the gaps. We didn’t use nails or rope, but they were sturdy as anything, held up by their own weight and tilt of the boards.

In that old photo, we’re sitting there grinning, my sisters Laura, Jane and I, and our friends Peggy, Mikey, Sandra and Brad. And then there are Dickey, Brent, Carla and Cindy, who are, sadly, no longer with us.

We were resourceful kids who could make anything out of nothing. We scraped together fir boughs and tree branches to make cabins in the woods, created a stage in the barn loft to host plays and built boats with discarded boards and nails.

One summer, a trucker dumped a pile of planks at Turner Lumber mill near our house and we eyed that lumber for days, waiting to see what was going to happen to it.

When a couple of weeks went by with no activity, like marauders we moved in. We stacked the planks, one by one, into square rooms, creating roofs over each one and adding more planks to make second and third stories until ultimately, they  grew into 10-foot-tall towers.  We’d crawl into them from the ground and climb up, floor to floor by slipping through a space we left open on each. Standing on the top floor, we got a magnificent view of the field and trees.

When the mill boss drove by one day and saw what we had done, he could only gape, amazed. We thought sure we’d catch hell, but we didn’t.

Then there was the Tarzan swing my brother, Matt, tied on an old tree with a wide arching branch, just off the road. We’d climb into the crotch of the tree, someone would throw us the rope and we’d plunge out, flying high over a gully.

The tree was on a corner and motorists would stop and stare as we swung over a swamp and then back over the road, nearly swiping the cars as they skirted by.

One time, we trudged through the woods to Wesserunsett Stream, hauling Matt’s homemade boat for its maiden voyage. Sam, our Newfoundland dog, trailed happily behind.

We reached the stream and launched the boat, Matt in the bow, Laura and Sam in the middle and me in the stern. We paddled to midstream and promptly began to sink.

“Bail!” Matt commanded.

Laura and I scrambled to scoop the water out as fast as we could but to no avail. We all went down, hook, line and picnic lunch. Like the loyal friend he was, Sam swam beside us until we reached shore.

Those were the days of summer fun, and the excitement that comes with waking up in the morning without a plan.

We were always catapulting into one adventure after the next, never imagining that one day it would all end.

Amy Calder has been a Morning Sentinel reporter 24 years. Her column appears here Saturdays. She may be reached at [email protected]