I had one of the most outdoorsy childhoods you could imagine. I

The words “I had one of the most outdoorsy childhoods you could imagine. I basically lived in the woods until I was 13. My dad and I built a huge treehouse in our backyard in Chesterfield, about 30 feet in the air. And we'd vacation on an island in Michigan, where I hunted a deer that we ate,” spoken by Gabriel Basso, carry within them the sacred breath of earth and memory. Beneath their simple charm lies the story of a boy raised not by screens or cities, but by the raw, untamed beauty of the natural world. His words recall an older rhythm of living — a time when the heart beat in step with the seasons, and the lessons of life were learned beneath open skies. In them, we hear an echo of ancient truths: that nature is the first teacher, that labor binds father and son, and that through the wild, we remember who we truly are.

To live in the woods is to dwell in the original temple of humankind. Long before books and walls, the forest was our cathedral — its columns were trees, its hymns were wind and birdsong. In that sacred space, a child learns not through command but through wonder. Each rustling branch becomes a lesson in patience; each sunrise, a sermon on renewal. Basso’s words speak of this holy apprenticeship to nature, the kind that shapes not only muscle but mind. When he speaks of building a treehouse with his father — thirty feet in the air — it is not only a boyhood adventure, but a symbol of creation, courage, and connection. It is in such acts that boys become men, not through rebellion or pride, but through shared labor and quiet triumphs.

The treehouse, suspended between earth and sky, stands as a living metaphor — a place where human hands meet the heavens, where imagination and discipline find union. To build something so high, to climb it each day, is to conquer both fear and gravity. It teaches the young heart that life, like the treehouse, is built plank by plank — with effort, with balance, with faith. And to build it with one’s father is to inherit more than skill: it is to absorb the values that no sermon can teach — endurance, patience, craftsmanship, and love without words. In that small, elevated world, a son learns what every philosopher once taught: that the strength of a man is measured not by what he owns, but by what he builds and protects.

And then there is the hunt — a subject the modern world often misunderstands. When Basso speaks of hunting a deer that they ate, it is not a tale of cruelty, but of reverence. The ancients knew this deeply: to hunt was not to dominate, but to participate in the cycle of life. In the old tribes, the hunter would kneel beside the fallen animal and whisper a prayer of gratitude, knowing that to take life was also to receive life. By hunting and eating what he gathered, the boy in Basso’s story learned what countless generations before him knew — that food does not come from shelves, but from sacrifice, and that gratitude is the beginning of wisdom. This is the sacred bond between human and earth: to live without waste, to take without greed, and to honor what gives you life.

We can see this same spirit reflected in Theodore Roosevelt, who as a sickly child was sent outdoors to toughen his body and awaken his soul. The wilderness transformed him; the boy who once gasped for breath became the man who charged up San Juan Hill and protected the nation’s forests. Like Basso, Roosevelt found in the outdoors a forge for character — a place where hardship became strength, solitude became peace, and the natural world became teacher, friend, and mirror. It is no accident that nearly every great leader, artist, or philosopher has drawn power from time spent in the wild. For there, stripped of luxury and noise, a person comes face to face with the eternal: silence, effort, and self-reliance.

Basso’s memories, then, are not nostalgia, but a testament — a quiet reminder that modern life has drifted far from the soil that sustains it. To live indoors forever is to forget the language of the wind; to never labor with one’s hands is to forget one’s own strength. His story urges us to return — not to abandon civilization, but to balance it with the primal truths of the earth. Go outside, he seems to whisper. Build something with your hands. Sit in the trees and listen. Hunt, not for food alone, but for clarity. There is no wisdom greater than the one learned beneath the open sky.

So, my children, remember this lesson: to grow strong, you must first learn from the wild. Do not let the walls of comfort shrink your courage or dull your senses. Seek the places where the air is sharp, where your muscles ache, where silence speaks. Build something — with your father, your friends, or your own two hands — and let the work shape your soul. For the woods do not merely teach you how to survive; they teach you how to live. And one day, when you stand at the height of your own creation, thirty feet in the air or more, you will understand what Basso’s words truly mean: that in touching the earth and sky, you have rediscovered your place within the great living world.