Category Archives: True story

My Political Journey

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            Growing up, probably like most kids, I paid little attention to world events. Until in the mid-1960s, when the threat of a war with Cuba, our school held bomb drills in the hallways. We’d be ushered out of our classrooms, then be told to sit on the floor, facing the wall. Cross our legs, bend over so that our foreheads touched our legs and cover our heads with our arms.

            We’d sit there, in fear, until the drill was over.

            With my active imagination, I pictured my annihilation. Over and over. Nightmares occupied my nights. I’d get up in the morning, brain dead and barely functioning. In the middle of the crisis, my family moved to California. My dad rented a home in Sacramento, without air conditioning, a miserable experience.

            I don’t think my dad visited the home long enough to understand that it was below the flight pattern of the air force base. Night and day bombers flew overhead, their distinct roar blotting out all other sound.

            I’d stand in the front yard watching them, imagining the crew going off to war. And the enemy, Russia, sending planes here to destroy America. Scenes of death and destruction haunted me.

            When the crisis ended, my fears eased somewhat, but it took many months before I slept all night long.

            We were involved in Vietnam toward the end of my high school years. The draft had begun. My brother’s number didn’t get called right away, so he was able t begin college.

            I was now watching the news, keeping myself aware of world events. Something about the war bothered me. While I couldn’t identify any facts that supported my misgivings, I continued to believe that America didn’t belong in Vietnam.

            My brother had to enlist or leave the country. He debated both. Escaping to Canada seemed a good choice, except that, like me, he had been given a state scholarship to use toward any college in California. If he ran away, he’d lose the money.

            He was sent to an army base in the Midwest for basic training. When he called home, he told us about how often he was beaten by the drill sergeant. How he was punished by excessive chores or being forced to run in the heat and humidity until he fell ill.

            When he refused to carry a gun or clean a gun or even carry a fake gun in parade, he was beaten so badly that his jaw was broken and placed in the brig. When his time ended, the army sent him home. He never had to go to Vietnam.

            Meanwhile I was fixated on the news. Every night we were bombarded by gruesome stories coming out of Vietnam, reinforcing my belief that America had no business being there.

            After a year at the community college, I transferred to the University of Southern California. I never skipped a class or turned in a late assignment out of fear of losing my scholarship. Without that money, I’d be lost.

            About mid-year, groups began organizing protests against the war. I went to several town hall meetings in which information was presented that made me cringe. I hated seeing the pictures of injured civilians and soldiers, but couldn’t turn away. I helped make signs and write protest speeches for other, braver students to deliver.

            In between classes I’d join marches on campus. We’d chant as we walked past classrooms, causing quite a fuss.

            The activists planned a mass day of protest for a weekend. Like hundreds of other students, I sat in the grass in what was known as the quad. I listened to speaker after speaker, all who said the words that I didn’t have the guts to say.

            About halfway through the morning, men in black suits appeared, standing along the edges of the quad. They looked the same with their military-style haircuts and ridged postures. Without being told, I figured they were feds, there to spy on us.

            I didn’t see cameras pointed our way, but fear overtook me anyway. I snuck off, afraid of being identified, labeled, and arrested.

            Later on, I learned I left just in time, for there were arrests, mass hysteria as students tried to escape, and injuries from falls and being beaten with cops’ bully clubs. I never attended another town hall meeting, but I did still participate in campus marches.

            For another month. Then, the group behind marches declared that they were going to set fire to the on-campus ROTC building. That was the demarcation line for me, a step I refused to cross.

            Because I don’t have a political background and took few classes in government or history, I can’t site instances or details. For this reason, I’d never win a debate or convince someone that their perception is wrong.

            Since then, I have consciously followed the news, but don’t join protests, unless you count sharing information of social media.

            I grouse with friends and family, but that’s it.

            My political experience was short-lived, but something I will never forget.

            I admit to obsessively reading stories and listening to news on public radio and television. To fear being left out, of not witnessing an important event that changes history or our government, and there’s a lot of that happening, every day.

First Time Camper

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            I grew up in a rather isolated environment. My family restricted my friends, so much so that I could count on one hand how many girls made it past their screening. Perhaps it was because we were quite poor and my parents didn’t want our level of poverty exposed. Or maybe it was because they didn’t want me finding out what others were doing.

            My awareness of what other girls my age did was quite limited. I saw them at school, of course, but that didn’t expand to friendship: there was no sharing of secrets or playtime at each other’s houses.

            In fact, except for one neighbor in Ohio, I wasn’t permitted inside anyone’s house. (Until I became a teen and figured out how to escape the restrictions!) If there’s no indoor time, you don’t know how many toys someone has or what they do for fun. You have no knowledge if they have a television or if they do, what they’re allowed to watch. You don’t know if they have just one old doll or dozens of new ones, or how many clothes they have in their closets.

            Because my interactions with others were heavily supervised and restricted, I had no idea if they went away to camp or just traveled with family, or it they went anywhere at all.

            When you grow up in such an environment, your knowledge of the world is comparable to living in a tunnel, with restricted view of what lies beyond.

            My family didn’t camp. We seldom took a vacation unless it was to stay with one of my mother’s sisters/ And none of those cousins ever went to a camp because they were just as poor, if not more so, than us.

            When I took a course at the College of San Mateo about a proposed development in the mountains, I understood that camping was part of the course. I expected information to be distributed detailing what types of equipment one needed plus clothing and other necessities.

            None of that happened, so I was on my own. This was pre-Internet, so I had no way of researching information other than going to a library, which, in all honesty, I failed to do. That turned out to be a huge mistake.

            Back then you could collect Green Stamps by bowling high scores. Every weekend, I went from alley to alley, bowling sets of six games, the maximum, and collecting stamps, which I later glued into books. Once you had enough books, you could trade them in for whatever was offered at the Green Stamp redemption center.

             I perused the catalogue, marking camping equipment that I thought I should have. Once I had enough books to redeem, I’d get someone to drive me there, trade them in, and return home proud of my “purchases.”

            Some of the things I got: a small canvas pup tent, a camping stove and lantern, a sleeping bag, air mattress and utensils. At a thrift store I bought a backpack: a canvas bag on a metal frame. I also bought a warm jacket and sweaters.

            As time neared, I began putting items in the pack. Once everything was inside, I knelt down and slid my arms into the straps. I couldn’t lift it off the floor! Then I sorted through my belongings, removing anything I felt I could live without for three nights.

            When time came to leave, my brother drove me to the meeting place on campus. As others deposited their packs on the ground next to the bus, I realized, with great embarrassment, that my equipment was all wrong.

            Not one person had canvas anything. Their packs were lightweight aluminum and nylon. Everyone else had jackets that stuffed into tiny bags, unlike mine which was bulky. Their sleeping bags were also nylon, unlike my flannel-lined cotton one. No one had an air mattress: instead they had thin mats that tied onto the tops of their packs.

            There was nothing I could do to change anything, so when it came time to leave, I put my stuff in the bottom of the bus and took a seat.

            The drive was amazing. I was surrounded by happy voices as people sang and shared stories. The voices were animated and filled with joy. Their energy was contagious, and although I didn’t participate, I loved simply being in their presence.

            At the trial we put on our packs and began walking. There were three leaders: one at the front, one in the middle, and one bringing up the rear.

            I started off in the middle, but as my inexperience and heavy tack pulled me down, I soon was at the rear. And struggling. I hadn’t realized that cheap tennis shoes wouldn’t work. Since that’s all I owned, I felt every stone, every stick, every rut. My feet grew sore within the first hour.

            As I fell further and further behind, the leader was stuck keeping me company. He offered encouraging words, like keep going, you can do it and so on. He must have realized that his words had little effect, for soon tears began flowing. If the bus had been at camp, I would have turned around and gone back.

            After an hour my shoulders were aching so badly that I imagined the straps of the backpack cutting into my skin. I pictured blood streaming down my back and chest. I thought I’d pass out, as it was also quite warm.

            This was before cell phones, so the leader stuck with me had no way to communicate with the others who had been out of sight for a long, long time.

            Someone must have noticed our absence, for a camper came down the trail and took my pack from me. He made a snide comment about my choice of equipment, which hurt, but there was nothing I could do about it.

            Without that weight, I could move faster, although not as speedily as others wanted. Eventually we joined the others, who had stopped at a wide spot on the trail. Because of how slow I was, we were far behind where we should have been. While only one person chastised me, I got plenty of angry looks.

            When others began putting up their tents, I worked to unstrap mine from my pack. I was told to leave it, as it wouldn’t be sufficient. Instead I was squeezed into a tent with two strangers, one on each side, which meant my spot was dead-center on the trail. On top of rocks. Which poked me all night long.

            I wasn’t prepared for how temperatures drop in the mountains. As long as I was somewhat near the small fires we had, I didn’t suffer too much, but once it was time to sleep, the cold smacked me all over. My sleeping bag would have been fine on a sleepover in someone’s heated bedroom, but insufficient outdoors, even on a warm day.

            I froze. I shivered all night long. Even though I had bodies on either side, their closeness provided no warmth. By the time morning arrived, I was unable to move. I couldn’t sit or stand. My fingers and toes were stiff. My face couldn’t change position.

            One of the leaders noticed and offered me his giant gloves and someone else loaned me a scarf. I was grateful. These people were experienced campers. They might have scoffed earlier, but their kind hearts refused to let me suffer too much.

            When we resumed walking, the men took turns carrying my stuff. I was embarrassed, as they had their own lightweight packs, showing their skills outdoors, with my cheap stuff added to their weight.

            Once re reached out destination, a view of the valley where a famous company wanted to build an expensive ski resort, the view was stunning. Other than when my family moved cross-country, I’d never seen mountains or deep valleys or mind-boggling views. It was so beautiful, that turning it into a resort seemed sacrilegious.

            That was the point of this trip: to expose how this company would destroy the environment to create a playground for the wealthy.

            After a quick lunch, which thankfully others shared with me as I had brought no food (oh, I forgot to mention that they also gave me food for dinner!), we headed downhill.

            By now I was able to carry some of my stuff, but the bulky items had been tied to others’ packs. My fingers and toes still hurt, so walking was treacherous as I couldn’t feel anything under my feet. I stumbled about, like a drunk. I still had the gloves, which helped somewhat.

            The bus was waiting when we got down to the parking lot. Our stuff was loaded into the bottom and we headed north. Because it took longer than planned to get me up there and back, we couldn’t drive all the way home that day.

            We camped at a rather boring site off the freeway. Once again they shared food, but because I was feeling better, I put up my own tent. During the night there were unfamiliar noises outside the camp. I had to pee, but was too scared to go out on my own.

            In the morning, I made a beeline to the restroom, the first one up. When I was awake enough to see what had happened during the night, it was obvious that some kind of creature had broken into everyone else’s packs. We had no food left.

            It was a long, hungry drive home. We did stop for hamburgers, but I hadn’t brought any money! Someone gave me a few fries, but that was it.

            Back home I was too embarrassed to tell my story. I simply hid in my bedroom for the rest of the day, spent time unpacking, then carried my stuff out to the garage.

            I never told my family any part of my experience. My parents were experts at ridiculing me, making me feel stupid and incompetent. I refused to give them another morsel to add to their weapon cache.

            That was my first time camping. While you might think it was my last, you’d be mistaken.

            My husband’s family loved camping at Lake Berryessa. Before we were engaged, he took me there to join his family. They were already settled in a spot, apparently the one they preferred. My husband hadn’t brought a tent, to my dismay! I was terrified of bugs and was convinced that they’d eat me up during the night.

            When I awakened in the morning, my face was swollen, so much so that I could only open one eye. My soon-to-be mother-in-law was a nurse. She applied compressed which brought down the swelling.

            My concern, my biggest worry, was that she’d tell her son not to marry me! Thank goodness, that never happened. Instead it became part of the family lore.

            After that, my husband and I camped many, many times.

Faith Formation

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            I raised as a Catholic. Considering that my dad was baptized as a baby, it was almost predetermined that I’d also be Catholic. My dad seldom mentioned faith or sharing his history of attending church. He shared that he had received the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, but as far as I knew, it wasn’t that important to him.

            Perhaps sharing a bit of his past might clarify why faith wasn’t a major part of his life. His father died when my dad was around five years of age. His mother remarried shortly after, and then proceeded to give birth to a goodly number of half-siblings. My dad was jealous of his siblings, and so regularly tormented them, as well as intentionally aggravated his mom. She’d get so angry with him that she’d chase him around the house, holding a wooden spoon about her head, threatening to spank him.

            My dad relished in making life miserable for anyone in the house. If a sibling was on the phone, he would disconnect the call, without warning, just so he could call someone. Not Christian-like behavior, that’s for sure. He stole food from their plates, dirtied their clothing, and when he wanted to go somewhere, would either take the only car or ride away on a bike belonging to one of them.

            After he graduated from high school, his mom kicked him out of the house. At that time, my dad worked at a bowling alley, setting pins. He’d stand in the back, waiting for a player to knock down whatever pins the ball happened to hit. As soon as the ball had cleared the lane, my jumped over the wall, cleared away the downed pins, then jumped back before the next ball could be released.

            His salary wasn’t enough to support an independent lifestyle. By that time the United States had entered WWII, so my dad enlisted in the Navy.

            I don’t believe he attended church as an adult.

He met my mom at a USO dance in Dayton, Ohio, and convinced her to bring him home. She lived in a small apartment with an older sister. The two women struggled to make ends meet on meager salaries. According to my mother, they never had a lot of food in cupboards or refrigerator.

My dad was a narcissist, only caring about himself. Whenever he was in my mother’s apartment, he’d rummage through cabinets until he found something to eat. He’d then demand that my mother prepare it, even though it was often the only food my mom and her sister had.

            Supposedly my mom loved him. He was handsome, with a rakish smile. He was buff, after years in the military. He walked with a confident air and exuded power. Perhaps that’s what she admired in him, for she’d grown up poor, he family traveling from job to job, often living in a farmer’s barn, alongside farm animals.

What my mom had going for her were her looks. She was petite, slim and gorgeous. She said she’s weighed about ninety pounds when they met. She was also naïve, having never dated until that USO dance.

They married in May, in a hastily arranged ceremony in a local Protestant church. Eight months later my brother was born.

            I came along a year and a half later, then my sister was born when I was seven.

            When it was time for my brother to begin school, my parents wanted him to attend the Catholic elementary school in Dayton, Ohio. A requirement of enrollment was that the family had to be practicing Catholics.

            That’s when my brother and I were Baptized and when the family began attending Mass on a regular basis.

            As a child, then even into my teens, I loved the atmosphere of the church. The Mass was in Latin, a language I didn’t understand, except for the prayers my parents made me memorize. As I graduated from first to fourth grades, I learned more and more Latin, until I knew what the priest was saying and what the words meant.

I loved the pomp, the processionals, the colorful garb the priests wore. I loved the ceremony, which the Catholic Church still relies on today.

But, instead of paying attention to the service, I’d stare at the stained-glass windows, reciting in my head all the stories depicted in colorful glass.

            The lives of the saints intrigued me. I wondered how they maintained their devotion to God despite horrendous torments. That they’d die rather than denounce their faith. That they’d walk through deserts in search of God or attempt to walk on water if God commanded, despite believing, rightfully so, that they’d sink.

            Such stories enthralled me, for they carried me away to some other, happier place, somewhere very different from my own living life of hell.

            Imagine growing up in a supposedly Catholic home, but knowing that nothing my parents did or said was holy. I was spanked with hands or belt for doing stupid things, like farting in the family room or not eating creamed corn. I was often commanded to squeeze into an old high chair, situated in front of the stove, until I’d deigned to eat the raw pancakes my dad had made.

My brother tormented me, kicking me, punching me, pinching me, treating me the way our dad treated him.

            My sister did the same, adding additional torments that she could inflict behind our bedroom door. She’d leave her side a mess, then tell our mom that I had rumpled her blankets or dumped her clothes on the floor. She’d whine whenever I was listening to my radio, run out of the room, complain to our mom, which resulted in my radio being taken away.

She wore corrective shoes with metal toes and insoles. She’d kick me so hard my legs were covered in bruises, then tell my mom that I was the one doing the kicking. She’d steal my clothes, pour something on them to make stains, which then angered my mom for my wasteful and inconsiderate behavior.

My siblings made my life miserable.

            Back to being Catholic, well, we attend Mass regularly, except when it snowed or after we moved to California, it poured. When in Ohio, the drive would have been dangerous as back then, snowplows weren’t as common, and so the combination of ice and snow created could have led to a deadly accident.

On those days, we’d gather in the front room, missals in hand. Dad read the Mass. We responded appropriately.

            I hated it.

            There was nothing holy in it for me: I saw it as an excuse to pretend to pray. To imitate the Mass, but without reverence. How could people who seemed to hate me, sit in a circle and recite passages of the Mass, a sacred worship service, after having tortured me the rest of the week?

            During my eighth-grade year, my last one at the Catholic school, our class was ushered into the church, for talks about what service meant. Priests, monks, and brothers attempted to recruit the boys, while nuns spoke of service to the poor, or teaching, or worshipping behind the walls of a closed convent. I still remember the joy I felt when I learned about a monastic order of nuns that lived in silence, offering work as a prayer to God.

            I wanted to join.

Imagine living in peace after years of being tormented. Imagine not being forced to talk out loud, instead listening to the call of birds and the whisper of the wind. Imagine living in harmony with other women who sought out that life. I loved prayer, and spending night and day in devotion to God and the saints soundly heavenly.

            My parents refused to allow me to join, saying that I’d regret not having children. Considering how often my mother reminded me that the only purpose for my existence was to serve her for the rest of my life, I didn’t relish the idea of either marriage or childbirth.

            Despite my young age, I had dated even though none of the boys interested me. I hated being touched by them, based upon the fact that the only touch I’d felt was in the form of punishment. I despised kissing and even their breath on my skin. I hated holding sweaty hands and being forced to sit thigh-to-thigh.

            I didn’t see myself sharing a home with a man, let alone bearing his children.

            To join the convent, I needed my parents’ permission. Once I turned eighteen, I could join on my own. With tears in my eyes, I prayed for that day.

However, the opportunity never arose, because as soon as my freshman year of high school ended, we sold the house and drove across country, eventually settling in South San Francisco, California.

            I have no idea if there was a Catholic high school in the area, so I attended the nearby public school. It was a short walk around the block. I hated that as well. It was too big, the kids either ignored me or teased me as I was an odd duck, and the classes boring.

Because I was no longer enrolled in a Catholic School, my parents insisted I take classes in a CCD program, the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, which was supposed to reinforce the Catholic doctrine.

            My teacher was a parent with no teaching experience or training. The students disobeyed her. They talked when they should be quiet, refused to answer when called upon, chewed gum despite being told to throw it out, and refused to stay seated. It was a waste of my time.

            I begged to stay home, but my mom insisted until the end of that school year, my sophomore year. At this time, I was somewhat jaded about faith. Catholicism had lost meaning for me ever since I wasn’t permitted to join the convent.

            The beatings at home continued. After each time my dad beat me or my brother pinched me, I lay awake at night trying to come up with a way to approach a priest. I hoped he’d help me escape. I never did, though, as I was too afraid of what punishment would befall me if I did such a thing, for I knew the priest would tell my parents all my complaints.

            To add to my disillusionment, shortly after settling in South San Francisco, my dad began shopping around for the shortest Mass. The closest church to us was beautiful, built in the Hispanic style out of stucco with red tiles on the roof. Inside it was airy, with high ceilings coming to a point. The altar was a huge edifice, painted white with gold trim. The stained-glass windows were enthralling.

I loved attending services there. Something about the atmosphere enticed reverence and prayer.

However, my dad deemed the Mass too long, so he began driving us all over in search of the shortest Mass. We attended services in Pacifica (where the priest preached fire and brimstone), Half Moon Bay, Daly City, and Burlingame. The priests seemed indifferent to our presence and not one parishioner approached in greeting.

Eventually my dad found a tiny church behind a strip mall, in San Bruno. The Mass lasted only thirty minutes, pleasing my dad. He declared that the church would be our only church.

It wasn’t pretty. It felt like an extension of the strip mall out on the El Camino Real. The inside was plain. While it had the requisite statues of Jesus, Jospeh, and Mary, the windows were ordinary glass. No colorful scenes depicting stories from the Bible. No organ music swelling to a crescendo. In fact, no music at all.

Around this time the Pope had declared that services were to be held in the people’s vernacular, so every word spoken, either by the priest or the congregation, was in English.

That part I liked.

Unfortunately, nothing about my attendance there provided any respite, offered no consolation, and didn’t fill my soul with awe or a sense of calm. It was a waste of thirty minutes of my life.

            My senior year of high school had me looking forward to college. My goal was to get far, far away.

            I was accepted at several colleges. My first choice was Ohio State, where I could live with my Granda Reiske, my dad’s mom. I’d help around the house in exchange for room and board. My parents refused to let me go.

My next was San Francisco State. I could live at home, to my dismay, as it wasn’t too far of a bus ride away. But they were afraid of San Francisco, so said no, once again.

The only college they would let me attend was the University of Southern California, only because my brother had been accepted there as well. He was to be my guardian. If only they had known how that would play out!

When school began, I intentionally did not attend Mass.

            I told myself that I didn’t miss it, that it meant nothing, that Sunday was just another time to study.

            One day, as I was walking back to my dorm room, I heard beautiful music coming from a small, one-story building. I stood there, listening, to folk songs I’d heard on the radio. I studied the sign out front, which declared it the Neumann Center. I didn’t know what purpose it served, but the songs invited me inside.

            Toward the front of the building, a folk group strummed guitars and pounded drums. They sang joyful songs, the entire congregation joining in. Everyone in attendance looked like me: college students of varying ages. I sat near the back, and soon found the joy returning.

            I went back the next Sunday, and then the next. A retreat was announced. I had no idea what that was, but a weekend in the woods sounded fantastic.

            On the assigned day, I boarded the bus with about thirty other people my age, plus a few adults as chaperones. The drive was joyous, with lots of singing and praying Halleluiahs. It didn’t feel artificial at all. My fellow travelers rejoiced in the Lord, praised Him and spoke of the many ways He filled their souls.

            To my amazement, our destination was a log cabin deep in the forest. When I got off the bus, my heart sang. When I looked up, the tips of the trees touched the sky, pointing to heaven. The bark was rough, an imitation of my life, but I felt warmth, the heat of life within.

            The needle-strewn path was soft underfoot. It comforted me, much like falling into a mother’s arms might have been, if one had such a mother.

            God came to me. He entered my very being. He made me feel loved, special, cherished.

            When time came to return to the chaos of Los Angeles and college, part of me cried inside. I wished I could have stayed in that forest, feeling the power of God’s love day after day.

            That weekend opened my eyes. I knew that I was loved, that I had a place in the church. I didn’t yet know in what shape my calling would arrive, but I knew it was out there, waiting for me.

            People talk about having a come-to-Jesus moment. That weekend retreat was mine.

            I knew that I’d never be alone as God was walking by my side. I understood that my life would turn out okay, if only I was patient and let God direct my path.

            Little did I know that God’s work was amazing. He spoke to me in quiet moments. He calmed me, when I’d had to return home after graduation. He gave me strength to handle the torments inflicted on me until I’d earning enough money to get my own apartment.

            And once I was free, He helped me find solace, even when my parents ridiculed me, called me names, attempted to destroy my marriage and told me I was a horrible mother.

            If I hadn’t found the Neumann Center, I don’t know when God would have found me. It’s because of that chance encounter that my faith returned.

            This is the story of how I went from being a child in awe of the material things of a church: the windows, the silence, the altar. How I discovered the pure joy of celebration. How it changed me forever.

Name Confusion

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            I taught for thirty-three years, everything from preschool to seniors in high school. When I worked with younger students, I often had close to forty students in a class. It might take me a few days to learn everyone’s name, but after that, I never made a mistake when calling on someone.

At times my high school classes were packed with thirty-four! I usually taught four sections per day; two AP ninth graders and two Resource Students. Thankfully my special education sections were smaller, perhaps ten or twelve.

That meant learning approximately eighty-eight names within the first week of school.

Now add in all the years I taught, and the numbers are in the hundreds.

When my own children were young, I coached soccer teams and volunteered as scorekeeper for baseball. Then there was swim team, with over 100 swimmers each summer.

One strategy I used to learn students’ names was to make a seating chart. I didn’t assign seats, but once students had settled, I didn’t let them move for at least one week.

The younger kids were cute, at that age, and then they’d move on, to be replaced by another thirty-four or more. I’d see former students out on the playground, a constant refresher, helping me recall names and personalities.

After they moved on to higher grades, I seldom interacted with them.

Years later I’d run into them shopping at the mall or grocery. Or maybe at a high school swim meet, or while out on a walk.

They always recognized me.

“Mrs. Connelly, how are you doing?”

“Do I know you?” I’d wonder silently as I tried to decipher where or when I had met the child, or now, adult.

While my mind ran through the various possibilities, I attempted to appear poised and confident in my knowledge of who they were. I’d engage in nondescript conversation, hoping they’d drop in a clue to help me recall their names.

It was with great relief when they’d say, “You were my favorite teacher,” or even better, “You taught me how to ….”

The most difficult to sort were kids I’d had in my preschool classes, or, as I moved up in grades, in third grade.

Those cute little baby-faces and tiny bodies now stood before me as teenagers, sometimes sporting facial hair. They resembled the adults they would soon become.

How badly I wanted to ask, “Do I know you?”

Instead I’d smile, nod, and look for an escape, a way to gracefully bow out of the uncomfortable situation.

Fire!

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We knew we would soon be moving from Ohio to California.

Our dad was an avid Cincinnati Reds fan, but had never attended a game in person. My brother played on a team, the worst team in the league. I was the better player, but back in the 60’s, girls weren’t permitted on boys’ teams, and there were no teams for girls. This irked me, to say the least.

Since my brother and I loved the sport, and we knew this was our last chance to see our beloved Reds play, we decided to earn enough money to take our family to a game.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Riddenhoure, had several fruit trees in her backyard that were overloaded with fruit. With our parent’s permission, Mrs. Riddenhoure allowed us to pick as much fruit as we could, knowing we intended to sell everything.

Our mother gave us a basket of tomatoes and another of green bell peppers.

We put everything in our rusty wagon and headed up the gravel road, knocking on doors. Each time we’d sold our load, we’d return home, pick more fruit, then head out once again.

This was hard work. Pulling a full wagon up hill was not easy. It bumped and rattled along, frequently coming to an abrupt halt when stones blocked the wheels. After we’d visited all the neighbors’ homes uphill, we headed downhill.

If you think going down was easy, you’re wrong. Imagine trying to keep a heavy load from crashing into the backs of your legs, or walking while bent over, gripping the and of the wagon, attempting to keep it from breaking loose and taking off, on its own.

We had no concept of how much tickets would cost, but after selling out, we’d return home and count the proceeds. After a couple of days doing this, our dad declared that there was enough to pay for both of my parents, plus my brother and I. Our sister stayed with another family, probably a good decision as she was only seven and held no interest in any sport.

Off we went to Cincinnati, a long drive from our rural home in Beavercreek. At first, we took single-lane country roads, then two-lane roads, then eventually a highway. (This was before freeways had been built.)

Since it took so long, I worried that we would miss the game, but, no, we arrived in plenty of time.

Our seats were on the second deck, along the third base side. I was in awe of the stadium. The lights, the signs, the excitement in the air stimulated me so much that I was trembling from joy.

I was intrigued by the perfectly mowed grass, the smooth infield dirt, the seemingly huge pitchers’ mound, and the umpires in their black uniforms.

On the ride home, my dad talked about our team, how well they played, the fact that they won. I couldn’t recall a single detail, other than the colors of the uniforms.

After we finally got back home, I went straight to bed. I couldn’t sleep because I was over stimulated.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened as I was only a naive fourteen-year-old, but a storm moved in. Later my mom told me that the weather person on the radio (which she had on in the car) had predicted a massive thunderstorm coming our way.

Anyway, as I was comfortable under my covers, a loud crack of thunder shook the house. I was used to thunderstorms as they happened frequently, but nevertheless, each one terrified me. Well, having this one so close, shook me to the core.

Minutes after the crack, my mom opened the bedroom door and told me to get up, get dressed, in that no-nonsense tone of voice. I changed quickly, for I sensed something had gone terribly wrong.

As I entered the front room, my mom handed me the leash, and told me to take the dog to Mrs. Riddenhoure’s house. The neighbor didn’t allow dogs inside, so I sat on the step to her kitchen, unaware of what was happening outside, until daybreak.

I smelled smoke, heard additional bursts of thunder and rain beating the roof of the garage.

My brother came for me, telling me it was okay to come outside.

By that time the excitement was nearly over. Later I learned that the volunteer firemen had arrived within minutes of my dad’s call. Hoses still snaked across our front lawn, now empty and useless. Steam arose from the ashes of our garage and across the fragments of roof still standing.

Before we’d gone to the game, my dad was in the process of installing a new, more powerful, TV antenna. It looked finished to me, but apparently, he had yet to complete the last step, the most important one in a thunderstorm-prone area: grounding the antenna.

Well after the firemen had left, a man from down the hill arrived with a photo he’d taken: an image of a ball of fire descending from the sky/

That’s what had hit the antenna. The firemen, when they saw this, returned. They attempted to follow the path the lightning had taken, as it traveled inside our house.

Every window had aluminum siding. The lightning was attracted to the metal, finding it in every room on the east side of the house. After setting the garage on fire, the lighting had erupted from one side of each window, then created a hole on the opposite side, so as to continue its journey north.

It burst free out of the north side of the house, sending the boards flying and leaving behind a gaping hole.

Now my bedroom was on the east side. If I had gotten out of bed to look out the window, the lightning would have hit me, setting me on fire. It was thanks to my mother that the four of us made it safely out of the house.

What remained was piles of ash and molten remnants of bicycles, tools, and all kinds of detritus stored there. Sifting through the ash, my mom discovered that most of her canned foods had survived. We depended upon them to get us through the winter, so that was a blessing.

The only other salvageable item was the manger from the nativity set.

How did that ceramic Jesus survive, intact, with no scorch marks?

When we moved to California, Baby Jesus rode with us in the car, wrapped carefully so as not to be damaged. Once we had a place to live (we were homeless for a bit), every Christmas, it was with awe that we held that manger, placed it inside the creche, and then told everyone why it was so precious to us.

I had two regrets: one, that I had missed all the excitement dur to my confinement in the garage, with the dog, and, two, that many years later, when my parents were both deceased, that my dad’s second wife disposed of the manger without consulting me.

Mindless Scrolling

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How did I manage before social media? I read the daily paper, watched the news on television and discussed topics with my husband and friends.

Then I got an iPad and discovered the joys of social media! At first, because I was working full time, I only checked it once, at night. Then it jumped to twice per night.

After I retired, however, I found myself looking more often. And since recent events, beginning with the campaign of the misogynist, the adulterer, the liar-in-chief, my obsession grew exponentially.

I absolutely had to know what he’d said, what he did, what he was pledging to do.

I survived the first four years with my sanity intact. Even so, every time I heard his voice, my heart sped up, my breathing became labored and I fell into a terrible panic.

When the Senate refused to impeach him, twice, I feared a comeback. After all, there was nothing to stop him, no rule that a convicted felon couldn’t become president. (I sure hope that’s changed whenever we get him out of office!)

When he ran a second time, against Joe, I shook my head. I like Joe. I felt he did a good job as president. He took care of people suffering from disasters. He signed Executive Orders to help college students plagued with debt. He visited factories, various communities, organizations and attended events that had nothing to do with him. Joe exhibited a caring heart.

Yes, he stumbled, physically and mentally. But he was smart enough to surround himself with individuals who knew, who understood, who offered advice that sometimes Joe might not have wanted to hear, but he listened nonetheless.

By the time elections season rolled around, Joe was four years older. It showed in his hesitant step (after breaking his foot), in his mumbling statements (due to fatigue and his speech impediment) and in his overall fitness to carry on another four years.

He obviously hadn’t read the negative comments. Folks asking who was really running the country. Folks questioning his mental acuity. Folks blaming him for things a president can’t control, such as the price of eggs.

He stepped down well into the primaries. The VP, Kamala Harris, took over the campaign, angering many.

Despite there being only 100 days before the election, other candidates should have been encouraged to run. If she came out on top, at least folks would have said that she wasn’t an heir apparent.

I personally might have voted for someone else.

We saw what happened to Hillary. She had years of experience in some of the highest offices in America. But…emails!  But…her husband. But…her pantsuits (which Kamala also wore). And…she’s a woman, an African-American woman who also has Indian descent.

I don’t believe that America is ready to elect a woman. My incessant scrolling on social media reinforces my belief. Women are often demeaned, ridiculed, humiliated. Many still see women as “less-than’ despite remarkable achievements in education, science, exploration and military service.

I see what’s happening under the felon’s second term. Women in positions of authority are called DEI hires, meaning they lack the capability to perform as a comparable male.

They are bullied by the felon, told they aren’t showing proper respect. They aren’t showing gratitude. That their states or colleges or law firms or companies will suffer economically unless they bow down and kiss the ring.

How do I know all these things? Because of endless scrolling on social media.

I try to restrict myself, but there’s a compulsion inside that demands I take another look, see what new has happened. That reinforces the belief that I might miss something, and so I scroll and read so more.

Endless scrolling is like a pandemic. Once it takes root, it’s hard to stop. There’s no medicine that can help, no bit of advice except for stopping cold turkey.

I’ve never been addicted to alcohol or drugs, but this feeling like I can’t go on unless I check, over and over, must be what it feels like.

I tell myself that I won’t look, and then I do.

I sit down to write, and then start scrolling as time flies by.

Endless scrolling. My personal addiction.

Faith Formation

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            I raised in a Catholic home. My dad was baptized as a baby, but he never spoke about attending church. He did receive the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, but as far as I knew, if wasn’t that important to him.

            His father died when my dad was around five years of age. His mother remarried shortly after, and gave birth to a goodly number of half-siblings. My dad tormented his brother and sisters and aggravated his mom to the point that she’d chase him around the house, threatening to spank him with a wooden spoon.

            If a sibling was on the phone, my dad would disconnect the call, without warning, so he could call a friend. Not Christian-like behavior, that’s for sure.

            After he graduated from high school, his mom kicked him out of the house. My dad had a job setting pins in a bowling alley. After a player had knocked down whatever pins the ball happened to hit, my dad would jump over the wall, clear away the downed pins, then jump back before the next ball could be released.

            His salary wasn’t enough to support an independent lifestyle. By that time the United States had entered WWII, so my dad enlisted.

            I don’t believe he attended church during that time period. He met my mom at a USO dance in Dayton, Ohio. He convinced her to bring him home, a small apartment that my mom shared with an older sister. When there, he’d rummage through their cabinets and demand she fix whatever food he saw. At times, it was the only food my mom and her sister had.

            But, my mom loved him. He was handsome, with a rakish smile. She was petite, slim and gorgeous. They married in May, in a hastily arranged ceremony in a local Protestant church. Eight months later my brother was born.

            I followed along a year and a half later, my sister when I was seven.

            There came a time when my parents wanted my brother and I to attend the Catholic elementary school in Dayton. To enroll, however, my parents had to show that our family were practicing Catholics.

            That’s when I was Baptized and the family began attending Mass on a regular basis.

            I loved the atmosphere of the church. Instead of paying attention to the service, which was in Latin, a language I didn’t understand, I’d stare at the stained-glass windows, telling myself the stories depicted.

            The lives of the saints intrigued me. The maintained their devotion to God despite horrendous torments. They’d die rather than denounce their faith. They’d walk through deserts in search of God. They’d walk on water if God commanded, despite believing, rightfully so, that they’d sink.

            Such stories enthralled me, for my own life was a living hell.

            To think that I was growing up in a supposedly Catholic home, yet knowing that nothing my parents did or said was holy. I was spanked with hands or belt for doing stupid things, like farting in the family room or not eating creamed corn. My brother tormented me, kicking me, punching me, pinching me, treating me the way our dad treated him.

            My sister did the same, adding additional torments since we shared a room. She’d leave her side a mess, then tell our mom that I had rumpled her blankets or dumped her clothes on the floor.

            In terms of worship, we did attend Mass, except when it snowed. I understood that the drive could have been dangerous. We’d gather in the front room, missals in hand. Dad read the Mass. We responded appropriately.

            I hated it.

            There was nothing holy in it for me: I saw it as an excuse to pretend to pray. To imitate the Mass, but without reverence. How could people who seemed to hate me sit in a circle and recite passages of the Mass, a sacred worship service, after having tortured me the rest of the week?

            During my eighth-grade year, our class was led into the church, where various religious orders gave talks about what serving with them meant. I still remember the joy I felt when I learned about a monastic order of nuns that lived in silence, offering work as a prayer to God.

            I wanted to join. Imagine living in peace after years of being tormented by my siblings and parents. Imagine not being forced to talk out loud, imagine listening to the call of birds and the whisper of the wind. Imagine living in harmony with other women who sought out that life.

            My parents wouldn’t let me, saying that I’d regret not having children. Considering how often my mother reminded me that the only purpose for my existence was to serve her for the rest of my life, I didn’t relish the idea of marriage or childbirth.

            I’d dated, some. None of the boys interested me. I hated being touched by them, based upon the fact that the only touch I’d felt was in the form of punishment. I despised googling eyes and their breath on my skin. I hated holding sweaty hands and being forced to sit thigh-to-thigh.

            I didn’t see myself sharing a home with a man, let alone bearing his children.

            To join the convent, I needed my parents’ permission, until I turned eighteen. That opportunity never arose, as after my freshman year of high school, we sold the house and drove across country, eventually settling in South San Francisco, California.

            Because I was no longer attending Catholic School, my parents enrolled me in CCD, the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, a program that laid out what religious concepts were taught for each grade.

            The students in my class disobeyed the teacher. They talked when they should be quiet, refused to answer when called upon, chewed gum despite being told to throw it out, and wasted my time.

            By this time, I’d become somewhat jaded about faith. Catholicism had lost meaning for me ever since I wasn’t permitted to join the convent.

            After each time my dad beat me or my brother pinched me, I lay awake at night trying to come up with a way to approach a priest to ask for help. I was too afraid of what punishment would befall me if ai did such a thing, for I knew the priest would tell my parents everything I had said.

            Shortly after settling in South San Francisco, my dad began shopping around for the shortest Mass. The closest church to us was beautiful, built in the Hispanic style out of stucco and red tiles on the roof. Inside it was airy, with high ceilings coming to a point. The altar was a huge edifice, painted white with gold trim.

I loved attending services there. Something about the atmosphere enticed reverence and prayer.

However, my dad deemed the Mass too long, so he began driving us all over in search of the shortest Mass.. We attending services in Pacifica (where the priest preached fire and brimstone), Half Moon Bay, Daly City, and Burlingame. Most of the priests seemed indifferent to our presence and not one parishioner approached in greeting.

When the Mass in a San Bruno church only lasted thirty minutes, my dad declared that we would only attend service there. The church was a squat building, seeming more like an extension of the strip mall out on the El Camino Real. The inside was rather plain: it had the requisite statues of Jesus, Jospeh, and Mary, but the windows were ordinary glass. No colorful scenes depicting important stories from the Bible. No organ music swelling to a crescendo.

By now the Pope had declared that services were to be held in the vernacular of the people, so every word spoken, either by the priest or the congregation, was in English.

That part I liked. The time spent provided no respite, offered no consolation, didn’t fill my soul with a sense of awe of calm. It seemed to be a waste of thirty minutes of my life.

            By now I was seventeen, looking forward to going away to college.

            When I finally escaped my family after enrolling in the University of Southern California down in Los Angeles, I intentionally did not attend Mass.

            I told myself that I didn’t miss it, that it meant nothing, that Sunday was a time to study.

            One day I was walking back to my dorm room and heard beautiful music coming from a small, one-story building. Out front was a sign declaring it the Neumann Center. I didn’t know what purpose it served, but the familiar songs invited me inside.

            Toward the front of the building a folk group strummed guitars and pounded drums. They sang joyful songs, the entire congregation joining in. Everyone in attendance looked like me: college students of varying ages. I sat near the back, and soon found the joy returning.

            I went back the next Sunday, and then the next. A retreat was announced. I had no idea what that was, but a weekend in the woods sounded fantastic.

            On the assigned day, I boarded a bus with about thirty other people my age, plus a few adults as chaperones. The drive was joyous, with lots of singing and praying Halleluiahs. It didn’t feel artificial at all. My fellow travelers rejoiced in the Lord, in praising Him and speaking of the many ways He filled their souls.

            Our destination was a log cabin deep in the forest. When I got off the bus, my heart sang. When I looked up, the tips of the trees touched the sky, pointing to heaven. The bark was rough, an imitation of my life so far, but I felt warmth, the heat of life within.

            The needle-strewn path was soft underfoot. It comforted me, much like falling into a mother’s arms might have been, if one had such a mother.

            God came to me. He entered my very being. He made me feel loved, special, cherished.

            When time came to return to the chaos of Los Angeles and college, part of me cried inside. I wished I could have stayed in that forest, feeling the power of God’s love day after day.

            That weekend opened my eyes. I knew that I was loved, that I had a place in the church. I didn’t yet know in what shape my calling would arrive, but I knew it was out there, waiting for me to come home.

            People talk about having a come-to-Jesus moment. That weekend retreat was mine.

            I knew that I’d never be that frightened little girl ever again. That my life would turn out okay if only I was patient and let God direct my path.

            This is the story of my faith formation.

            How I went from being a child in awe of the material things of a church: the windows, the silence, the altar. How I discovered the pure joy of celebration. How it changed me forever.

A Background into Being Shy

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            There was a perfectly valid explanation for why I was a socially awkward child.

            When you’ve been scolded for speaking in the presence of others, when you’ve been made fun of and teased mercilessly by family, you learn to keep your mouth shut.

When you are never asked which flavor of ice cream you prefer or what cereal you’d like, or even what game you’d like to play, you realize that your preferences have no standing within the family.

            Let me explain.

I was the middle child, with a brother who was fourteen months older and a sister who was seven years younger. In my mother’s eyes, neither of them could do no wrong, while everything I did or didn’t do was mercilessly scrutinized.

They got to decide where we went, what we ate, what games we played. Their birthdays were celebrated with homemade cakes, candles, and ice cream, while mine passed without notice.

In essence, I was invisible. Except when they needed me to perform some household chore. One of my many duties was to clean my brother’s bedroom, something I despised. I was also expected to dust off every single leaf on every indoor plant, at least once a week. It was a tedious, time-consuming job.

When the family sat in the front room to watch television, or gathered for a meal, I appeared as demanded, but only in body. I was not permitted to speak unless commanded, even when my siblings were having a great discussion about something of interest.

It was a rough way to grow up.

            There were some benefits to being invisible.

By the time I was five years old, I had already learned that not being seen was a blessing. If they didn’t see or hear me, I was safe from punishment supposedly deserved for saying or doing the wrong thing.

On the other hand, my invisibility kept me miserable: an unhappy child whose self-esteem was nonexistent.

            For some reason that to this day I don’t understand, my parents decided to enroll me in a private school Kindergarten. Back in the 1950s, Kindergarten was not mandatory. My brother hadn’t gone: his school years began with first grade. Because I was in a private school, my parents had to pay tuition.

We were a low-income family, struggling to have food on the table. Paying my tuition must have had an impact on the rest of the family.

            On the first day of school, even at my young age, I realized that I was academically behind my peers. I could not name all the colors, did not know shapes, knew no letters of the alphabet, and had no understanding of numbers. My teachers gave me different work than my peers.

While they worked on learning basic words, I colored and cut out shapes. (I forgot to mention that they had to teach me how to cut!) I was so far behind, that when small groups were formed, I sat alone.

This marked me as being the dumbest kid in the class. During free play, no one wanted to have anything to do with me. I spent all my time in the sandbox, creating roads for the metals trucks and cars.

One time I decided I’d swing, but no one would get off so I could have a turn. Or if they did get off, they’d hold the swing for a friend.

            Day after day I sat silently in my assigned desk. I didn’t answer when the teacher asked me a question, if she did so in front of the class. If she cornered me when I was alone, I managed a whispered response, but only a word or two.

I still remember my teacher whispering that I would overcome being shy. She was wrong.

            When Kindergarten finally ended, I knew a lot of things that I hadn’t known before class began. I now knew colors, shapes, numbers, and letters. I could hold a pencil correctly and write my name, the alphabet and numbers. I could draw shapes and color within the lines. But I could not speak out loud and I had no friends.

            It was a terrible way to begin one’s academic career.

            As I grew older and moved from grade to grade, I understood what was required to score high enough to satisfy my parents. I did all the things that my teachers demanded and completed all assignments to the best of my ability.

When called upon to respond in front of my peers, something happened inside me: my mouth froze and no sounds were emitted. No matter how hard I tried, I could not muster the strength to squeak out a response. It was embarrassing.

            By junior high I had developed a voice, but it was a quiet one. I still had no friends. I could not approach someone and initiate a conversation. If I neared a group on the playground, I stood silent, even when I had something to offer.

            In high school I made my first real friend. She was a loner like me. I don’t remember her name, but I do recall the hours spent on the playground, talking about all kinds of things.

This was a revelation. Someone cared what I thought and really wanted to know and understand my opinions!

Imagine how liberating that was. This friendship allowed me to grow, so that by the

time college began, I had overcome some of the paralyzing fear I had of public speaking. I could answer in front of others, but only if the class was small. If I felt I truly knew something more than my peers, I could muster the strength to voice an opinion.

I’d like to report that even in my seventies, I am no longer shy, but that is not true.

I’m comfortable in small groups of close friends, but still nervous when emersed in groups of people who do not. I struggle when at writing conferences and workshops where I am with ten to fifteen strangers who will critique my writing and then express my critique of theirs.

It’s painfully hard.

If in a situation where there are lots of individuals who either I don’t know or barely know, I find a corner in which to plop down. And then there I remain until time to leave.

People who have known me for a long time don’t believe that I am shy. That’s because I feel safe with them. I believe that they want to know what I think, and so I can relax and be me.

I love being with those friends because they treat me as a person of worth.

If only I had felt this growing up. Imagine how different I might have turned out!

Born to Shine

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Imagine how different the world would be if every child, no matter how rich or poor, heard how wonderful they were on a regular basis. Think about how they’d shine each night when their guardian tucked them in and spoke those three words.

Perhaps there’d be no bullies because, if you feel worthy, you have no need to belittle others. Consider how brave everyone would be, not afraid to try new things, no fear of being rejected, no worries about being pushed aside.

When I was young, I never felt special. In fact, I was repeatedly told how useless I was, how stupid I was, how inferior I was to my older brother. Never once did my parents praise me, even for something as small as cleaning my room.

I often wonder how different I might have been if, just once, my mom had said that I was born to shine. Would my attitude toward school have been different? My grades better?

When meeting people, would I have had confidence in my abilities?

I offered praise to my own children, when deserved. I gave smiled and spoke words that showed my pride in their accomplishments. I enrolled them in educational classes offered at the library and other organizations. They took numerous swim lessons and played a variety of sports.

I helped with schoolwork and volunteered at their schools. I was team mom in little league, a scorekeeper in baseball and as a soccer coach and referee.

I did these things because I wanted to share those experiences with them, but also it was my way of saying that I was proud of who they were.

Born to Shine. Powerful words. My children grew up to be wonderful adults. They all graduated from college and contribute to society in a variety of ways. They each, in some fashion, are helping future generations shine.

If I could go back in time, instead of reading aloud books as I cradled my kids in my lap, I would tell them that they were born to shine. As I watched them struggle in sports or academics, I’d say those words and then watch the effect they had.

I don’t recall receiving a single word of praise or encouragement from my parents, Nevertheless, I told myself that I was born to shine. Perhaps not in those exact words, but the message was the same.

I sometimes thought I was lying to myself, but I persevered nonetheless. Because my parents made me feel inferior to my siblings, when I was feeling down, I’d think of the things that I could do better than them.

For example, I was the better athlete during a time when girls played few sports. I learned languages quickly and read everything I could about different places and cultures. I was an excellent math student, my grades so strong that I got a full-ride scholarship to any college in California.

Despite telling myself that I was able to accomplish anything, I struggled with low self-esteem and even lower self-confidence. My brother was smarter and got better grades. My sister was prettier and loved to dress like a girl. They were both cherished by my mom, while I was just there, a slave to clean house and do laundry.

What if my parents had told me I was born to shine? Those words would have meant more to me than a bucket of gold. I would have known that they saw something valuable in me. My self-esteem would have risen. I would have liked myself better.

Born to shine. I wish that every parent would say those words to their kids, no matter how old. Over and over, look them in the eye and say born to shine. Pat them on the back, give them a hug, turn it into a song. Say the words weekly, daily, hour by hour.

Slowly, ever so slowly the world would change.

Born to shine. Power.

Fascination with Trees

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I can’t recall a time when I was not drawn to trees. They amaze me.

Day after day they change.

Imagine something that grows taller and wider at such an incrementally slow pace that it is invisible to the eye.

They change with the seasons. Some burst into new life when the sun begins to shine in spring. Tiny green buds sprout forth, signaling the wonders that are to come. Those buds become leaves. All kinds of leaves, in all shapes and sizes and colors.

When I was young, I collected leaves, especially the ones from maple trees. Such broad leaves! So green in spring and summer, but when fall arrived, they morphed into shades from red to orange to brown. I loved them all.

I miss maple trees. They grew in the woods behind our house in Ohio, but not here in California where I now live. I was disappointed to discover that I would most likely never see them again.

It wasn’t just their leaves that I loved, but also their seed pods. They were shaped like wings and if you tossed them as high above your head as you could manage, they would twirl down to the ground. I did this over and over, season after season, never growing tired of the display even well into my teen years when I should have moved on to other things.

In Ohio all trees shed their leaves in the fall and remain bare throughout the cold winters. Even when quite young I understood that winter was a time of rest, a time to store up energy to be ready to burst into action at the first sign of spring.

It was the same for me. In the winter I huddled inside where it was warm, venturing outside only when bundled from head to toe. Some days my breath froze, rising to rest on my eyebrows and hair. My teeth chattered and I thought my fingers and toes would crack and fall off.

We moved to California after my ninth grade year. The seasons here are not as differentiated as in Ohio. What we call winter is nothing to people who live in the Midwest, North or East, for there it snows and temperatures can drop well below freezing.

I’ve lived in California so long that now I think it’s cold if it’s below sixty.

Because our seasons are not as sharply delineated, not all trees go through the autumnal changes. Looking out my window right now, in mid-February, I some trees are just beginning to grow buds, some have sprouted their leaves.

Fir trees, meanwhile, stay green throughout the year.

Flowers have begun blooming, primarily roses, which seemed to never stop during the winter.

Trees that produce fruit amaze me. They are so generous, so thoughtful, even when their human caretakers are less then vigilant. Day after day apples and pears and oranges and other wonderful things ripen, all for our consumption.

Some fruits require a little work to get inside to the meat, while some don’t.

I love fruit that you can bite into and have your mouth filled with sweetness, the juice spilling onto your chin. Every time I eat an apple or pear, I am thankful that I am blessed with having such a marvelous thing to eat. On the other hand, I won’t eat peaches because I can’t stand the fuzzy outer wrapper. If someone is kind enough to peal them for me, then I’m happy. Same with mangoes.

Whenever when walking around my neighborhood,  and I see fruit growing on trees, I want to reach up, pull off just one and take a bite. But I don’t. I don’t know how needy the owners are. Perhaps that apple is their only sustenance of the day. Perhaps the orange is their only access to vitamin C. I would not want to steal that treasure from them. So I walk on.

In our neighborhood there are not as many trees as when we first moved in fifty years ago. Some have died. Some have been taken down by their owners. Some removed by the city because their roots were growing into the pipes or raising sidewalks to a dangerous level.

I miss all the once grand, sprawling trees that hung out over the road creating a marvelous canopy! So beautiful. Now gone. The young trees that were planted as replacements are just now beginning to grow taller and wider, reaching out over the street.

We have the pleasure of driving through forests on whenever we our way get into the mountains. I love to look at the trees, how magically they grow out of rock and cling to the sides of granite cliffs as if they were meant to be there. When the sun shines on them they are a wonderfully deep green.  They sing with life! And when you get close enough you can take in their rich aroma, like sticking your head in a cedar chest from long ago.

When they are covered with snow it is a picture straight from Christmas cards. I imagine myself riding on a horse-drawn sleigh under their boughs and having dollops of snow fall on my head as I lean back laughing. I have never done this, but nevertheless I can place myself in the scene.

When I was young I did not wear glasses. Trees frightened me because I thought each and every one would fall on my head, killing me. In fourth grade my teachers demanded that I get glasses. I remember the bus ride home, after getting my first pair of glasses, looking out the window and seeing that the leaning trees no longer leaned! It was a miracle.

Trees defy the passage of time as they remind us of all they have to offer.

I hope that I will never lose my ability to appreciate the wonderful gift that each tree is.