Beloved Trees

Today I was at what used to be my father's house cleaning up the tree destruction from the last few wind storms.  60 mile-an-hour winds really do some damage on older trees.  Two trees in particular took major hits - a red cedar and a pussy willow (okay, it's a shrub, but work with me).  These were two beloved trees of my father's and mine, and seeing them so damaged really cut me to the quick.

The red cedar was a tree given to me by my grandfather when I was maybe five years old.  It was the beginning of a multi-year tradition where he would bring me a potted "Christmas tree" from his farm. Just a volunteer seedling really, but all decked out for the holiday.  The tree would go in my bedroom and on Christmas Eve, Santa would leave me a few presents that I was allowed to open before anyone else got up.  It was a brilliant idea of my mother's and garnered her hours of extra sleep on Christmas morning because I was fully entertained by these presents and stayed quiet and in my room. 

Each year, the trees were saved until spring and planted throughout our yard.  Two of them remain and have grown into 40-foot specimens. Gorgeous and lush.  But so sad today with one completely topped and another missing a major limb.  The split cedar still smelling so fresh where it lay.

And the pussy willow.  This was one of Dad's all-time favorites. He would order them every year from a catalogue and try to grow them all over the yard.  I'm fairly certain his fondness for them started as a child, where he had them in his yard.  He would worry over them - the deer love to rut on them, they break easily, they don't take to the clay soil here like they do to the rich soils of Illinois, and so on.  But every year in February, he would cut a few branches, put them in a vase in a cool room of the house and force them to blossom.  So soft and so unique.

Today, as I was cutting up the remains of the willow, I noticed that the very top blossoms had started to come out.  I cut a few branches to bring them inside and had a moment talking with Dad, asking if I should get some new saplings or try something different in its place.  And just as I was getting a bit teary, thinking of the things he knew and loved that are slowly going away, a barred owl hooted just over my head as loud as can be.  (It was 3 in the afternoon so a bit out of context.)  Now I'm not saying it was Dad sending me a message to get over myself and get back to work, but it did give me pause that the "wise" owl was the one that talked to me in that moment, and not the hawk I saw a few minutes later sitting on a tree watching me work.

The funny thing is that years ago, I wrote a short story called, "I Watched Them Cut Down the Walnut Tree."  It was about the walnut tree that hung over our swimming pool, one which I hated forever because it dropped its tannin-filled leaves and nuts into the pool and I had to clean up after it.  For years, I asked my dad to cut this tree down, but he refused.  It was one of his beloved trees.  In the story, he had just passed away and my first act was to cut down this walnut tree, only I couldn't because it was like cutting off another piece of my father.  That walnut tree stands about 20 feet from the cedars and from the pussy willow that took such a big hit.  And I'm happy to report that not a limb was out of place on that damned walnut tree.  Naturally.

Personal vocabulary

Looking at the tile in my bathtub today and the watermarks there, I said out loud, "I have to get some Bab-O and really scrub that soon."

It stopped me cold. Bab-O.  A product not made since the 1950s or so, but one that my father and mother referred to often when it came to cleaning.  And now it's part of my lexicon, and it brings the two of them back to me immediately. 

Just like when I say, "T'ain't funny, McGee," when someone makes a dumb comment or mocks me. A one-liner from Fibber McGee and Molly, a radio show that I wasn't even alive to hear, but an active part of my memory.  Dad used this phrase to keep me in line if I was lipping off.  And now, when I say it, only Nick knows what I'm talking about because he listens to old radio shows in the shop.

Mom had her phrases too.  I was always her bubala.  She's not Jewish, but having grown up in the Bronx in the 1940s, she picked up her fair share of Yiddish.  Guessing I was one of the only kids in McLean in the 1970s being called that.  Or her favorite phrase when coddling/teasing...ism-wism-mosum-moosum.  Probably another variant of something Yiddish.  I doubt she even remembers where she got that one, but it sounds like an oldie.

Growing up, I used tin foil.  We watched moving pictures.  And Mom and Dad fought over using oleo or butter.  All phrases that no longer make sense in a post-industrial, Internet world.  But still, they are lodged firmly - and used often - in my own personal vocabulary and they make me feel instantly close to the people who shared them with me.

The Graduate, again and again

Shouldn't this movie be required viewing for all 21-year-olds?  And then again at every major life stage we have?  I don't know of many films that hit me every time in the emotional gut quite like this one does.  Each time I see it, I see something new.  Whether it's the lack of a plan for a young person, detachment between generations, moral ambiguity about sex, love at first sight, just everything.

And each time I also watch it in a new way from a film-making and writing perspective.  The writing is spare and doesn't get in the way, which is a gift to this film, because the shot-making is superb.  Benjy in the shadows, Mrs. Robinson in profile and in the dark, shots of the monkey cage behind the fence "Do Not Tease" sign shown prominently, the use of water throughout, shots from Elaine's girlish perspective, Buck Henry framed by the front desk asking "Are you here for an affair?", and on and on. 

And then there's the sound track.  Of course, Simon and Garfunkel's lyrics are an integral part of the script and the music timed to the action is superb (when the car breaks down on the way to the church and the music slowly grinds to a stop - has that ever been repeated as well?).  But the real hidden art in this film is the use and lack of use of background noise.  Benjy underwater for minutes - no noise - we're trapped with him.  Complete silence in other parts juxtaposed with the Sound of Silence.  And the car traffic, TV, toast popping, rhythmic pounding on the glass in the church - take each scene to a different level. 

What can I say.  I'm a huge fan.  Thanks, Mike Nichols.

Running away from home

On many occasions as a child, I would take one of my dad's bandanas, fill it with packages of Juicy Fruit and cans of Pepsi, tie it to a stick and walk - bundle over shoulder - as far as I could away from home.  I would end up at the far corner of our neighbor's yard or a way down the next street over before I got tired.  Sometimes I would make it to the high school next door and sit in the parking lot on a curb.  I would chew the gum, drink a can of soda, sit for a while and just look around.  I would wonder about this new place, explore a tree, creek bank or gutter, and then eventually return home. 

I loved - and still love - running away from home.  I don't think I will ever outgrow the feeling of wanting to pack up a bundle and go until I want to stop.  In grad school, I would make carefully constructed lists of things to take on my motorcycle across country.  It mostly involved a favorite pair of jeans, sunglasses, a boyfriend's sweater, and many mixed tapes, and the lists got me through many finance and accounting classes.

When I was 30, I did run away from home, away from everything I knew, and found myself in New Zealand.  One of the best feelings I have ever had was sitting on a bench with two people (now great friends) and asking ourselves why we were leaving a remote, idyllic town on the North Island.  We didn't have anywhere to be, our tickets were open-ended, and we could get jobs that paid under the table for as long as we wanted.  We threw the schedule, such as it was, out the window, and stayed for many more months.  One of my friends even ended up marrying a man from the town and is still there. 

Now that I am older, the fantasies really haven't changed that much.  I still want to pack it all in and just go.  Pick a place at random, meet new people, be anonymous and stay for a while with no responsibilities.  It's a freeing feeling.  It comes on during times of great stress and during times of great happiness. 

The only thing holding me back today is a bit of real estate, a dog and a cat, which means the fantasy lists have changed a bit. On my vacation last week, instead of mapping out mixed tapes, I planned how to bring the dog with me, what I would do to make sure the cat was taken care of, how to rent the houses while I was gone, and where I would go. 

I don't think this wanderlust reflects my inability to commit to something, as a friend has challenged me recently.  The idea of something unknown and new around the corner is a powerful draw for a curious person.  It's not wrong to want to see new things and meet new people, throw yourself into something you've never done, and test yourself in new ways.  And these days, I actually want to run away from home with someone else, which I think shows a decided lack of fear of commitment. 

At the end of the day, I know that my running away from home is not wrong or a manifestation of some inner failing because I know that after I've had my fill of new experiences, bubble gum and soda, I can always come home.  And I do.