Wherein the Author Compares Her Childhood Home to an Apple Tree

I.                    The Seed, The Memory

The realm of my childhood is tucked securely in my mind. Few physical anchors remain: a gravel lane, a Dr. Pepper can, an unfinished treehouse, and an old Dogwood tree. Despite the lack of evidence, all I have to do is peer down that gravel lane to the overgrown lot, and memory fills in the rest: grass shears to livable lengths—rurally speaking—, tree sprouts regress into promises of the future, and the glorified trailer-with-a-basement hovers like a ghost.

II.                 The Trunk, The House

Since I was two years old, my houses have resided on gravel lanes. On this particular lane I had etched several memories: my first two-wheel bicycle, my literally skinned knee, a few broken toes, and other various escapades of youth. The gravel lane stretched from the church’s parking lot in an L-shape to the highway. Sitting at the bend was my childhood home. The bend had a gravelly growth where the cars would park. In front of the cars, to a child’s mind at least, the earth ended: a steep drop to the woods. Right at the top of that drop was a Dogwood tree. To the left of the cars was the house, with a small path that led to the porch.

      Five round cobble stepping stones hop-scotched from the gravel parking area to the sturdily rickety wooden porch. This porch was often adorned with a live cat or two. The square porch was connected to the rectangle that was my first remembered home. The glorified trailer started off-center, the door over to the right. The yellow-linoleum entrance hall clattered with doggy paws as an excitable Shih-Tzu rushed to investigate any intruders. An immediate right presented the open square living room with its brown-paneled walls— initials hidden behind the Lazy Boy —, faded floral couch, and memories of my dad scattering our Treasure Trolls and Cabbage Patch Kids over Christmas gifts in an attempt to convincingly recreate a horror-movie scenario. Left from the couch presented an old wooden table and chairs, left again the small kitchen. I and eldest sister Amanda spent many nights there, hooked to a respirator machine when the woods outside or a cold incited our asthma (middle sister Nicole was spared this fate). In that kitchen, I learned to swallow pills and baked my first chocolate-chip cheesecake. Through the kitchen— corner to the right adjacent to the entranceway —was a large area with various purposes.

      A door to the left revealed a flight of stairs that had seen several falls— a few times from my sister but mostly from the poor dog. To the right, a sliding door that led to a small square patio, one story above the ground. This sliding door was the sight of my first “fix-it” adventure, where I bested my dad.

      The large multi-purpose room saw our schooling, our computers, our snake, our Grow-a-Frog, our butterfly garden, our 3-in-1 activity center, our Barbies. At the far end of the room rested the hall where, if I tilted my glasses just right, I could hike mountain trails. Five rooms branched from this hall. To the right, a small laundry room perfect-yet-predictable for hide-and-seek, followed by a small atrociously-green bathroom that saw many tantrums from three quarreling sisters forced to share. Off the left of the hall, two bedrooms that saw several rounds of Musical Residents until my two older sisters were gifted the basement to share, at which time I got one room and the other became a guest room. At the very end of the hall was the Master Bedroom, that mystical space where the parents exist at their fullest, where nightmares are banished, discomfort is eased, and the second bathroom waited for merciful permission to be used— said bathroom was yellow and carpeted, with a door between sink and tub/toilet: Heaven to a growing girl’s privacy, the yellow walls akin to the golden gates of Paradise.

      Back through the hall to the multipurpose room, over to the set of stairs leading down: the space where fear and bravery combined to form caution. These stairs were wooden and slick, with no back and no walls; on the right was a set of posts to which a rail was attached. When the door to the stairs was left open and Ozzie Smith the Shih-Tzu ventured down, he tended to slip out the open back and perform acrobatics worthy of his Cardinal name-sake. We learned to place something soft under the stairs for him to land on when he fell through.

      For the first few years, the basement was unfinished. Once it was completed, it was a storage area and a place for tricycles, rollerblades, and Nintendo. Once my sisters were old enough, it became two bedrooms. The stairs ended in Nicole’s room. To the left was a barrier of large blinds—the tiniest gap existed, where was hung a bead curtain to mark the entrance to Amanda’s room. Two sharp rights from the stairs, through Nicole’s room to the corner, and two more doors presented themselves. The first, to the left, was the second half of the basement: unfinished, it was used for storage and animals— the cats could come in when it was cold, and the large almost-ground-level easy-open windows made it easy to change rabbit cages. The second door was another sliding one that led to the outside. Due to the sharp hill that the trailer-with-a-basement was built into, the front door was on the top level, and the back door was in the basement.

III.              The Greenery, the Woods

Trees flanked our house on one side and behind. Childhood naivety allowed my sisters and I to disregard property lines— that and generous “neighbors.” Right where the trees lined our backyard stands an unfinished treehouse. “Unfinished” is an understatement. Two tall poles reach up parallel to two medium-sized trees, and a square of wood connects them all. That’s all there is. It was a project started by my father and me, but never continued.

A few feet further into the trees rested “The Fort,” a large boulder that was made of everything— including a few rocks. A large tree stump had been caked with dirt and moss and other such things until it resembled an almost-round organic-Paper-Mache boulder. The Fort was hub number three of my childhood: I loved to climb atop it and read or just enjoy the sounds; it was also the perfect place for my quiet times in prayer when I grew older.

Past the Fort and a little to the left was the graveyard: the final resting place of several fish, two Guinea pigs, a few rabbits, a dog, and some cats. Straight back from the Fort was the Dr. Pepper can.

Often, when we played in the woods, we would take a snack. This snack generally consisted of chips or an apple and a soda. The snack would be tucked securely in a lunch pack; said lunch pack doubled as a trash pail. One time, however, we hadn’t planned on playing long, so my sister simply carried her soda with her. The problem became that when she finished it, she had nowhere to put it. Spying a bare twig, she up-ended the can and hung it there like a hermitish Christmas ornament. The original intention was to collect the can on the way back. The official decision was to “see how long” it would stay on the branch. The last check was many, many years ago, before we moved, and the can was still there. Faded, but there.

A creek cut through the woods, with a large tree stretching its roots across for us to use as a bridge. That tree was hub number two of my childhood: I found arrowheads and turtles, read books, imagined, balanced, and dared. When winter hit and all two inches of the creek froze through, my sisters and I would slip on our snow boots and skid around, pretending to ice skate. The biggest danger was the rocks that were taller than two inches. We never dared to ask if we could ice-skate on the pond.

The pond lay past the creek and up a hill steeper than the drop with the Dogwood. By the time we reached the top, we often had to stop and catch our breath. Rarely did we venture this far: at this point, we knew we were on someone else’s territory and had no idea who to ask for permission. The meadow beside the pond, however, was often worth the risk. Large sunflowers, Queen Anne’s Lace, and other plants greeted us. One time, I even found a set of bleached animal bones sitting out in the sun. But I never ventured near the water; warnings from my parents echoed in my ears of unsupervised swimming, and I was intensely afraid of swimming in “wild” water…alone, at least. 

IV.              The Blossom, The Dogwood

I am Pocahontas, perched to watch the white man come;

I am a monkey, swinging from the branches and watching the world disappear;

I am a cowgirl, mounted on her trusty steed;

I am a hummingbird, smelling every pale flower though not brave enough to taste;

I am a child with the perfect Dogwood tree.

The Dogwood tree was hub number one of my childhood. Though it was old, slightly misshapen, and not the sturdiest tree, it was one of my favorite locations. The stem split into a V-shape about a foot up from the ground, which made for an excellent everything— step, saddle, seat, headrest, etc. There was also a sturdy, low-hanging branch that I could just reach if I stretched up on my tippy-toes. By grasping the branch tightly and kicking off from the ground, I could swing out and over the hill. The one thing I never did, however, was climb. I have an excessive fear of climbing trees, and can never seem to get back down. There is only one tree I remember climbing willingly and coming down from; the Dogwood was not that tree.

It was here, nestled between the two stems, that stories first sprang into my mind as more than just something to read; here where I first remember discovering my imagination as an actual, tangible thing.

The Dogwood held other discoveries: edible “honeysuckle” plants, wild onions, and insects to explore. These discoveries could be seen as practical, but I saw them as something else: inspiration. My imaginings were no longer limited to my mind. I could smell them, taste them. My environment shifted to match my dreams. My dreams changed on a constant basis. From movie-inspired to original, my thoughts blossomed alongside the Dogwood’s flowers.

V.                The Fruit, the Destruction

My childhood home is no longer standing. The beginning of the end was when we moved. Though it was convenient being just down the lane from the church where my dad was pastor, the trailer was no longer big enough for us. I was almost thirteen, my sisters were almost seventeen and nineteen. While the trailer had seemed massive to us as children, it was cramped to us as adolescents. And the whole one-bathroom thing? Yeah, not working so well anymore.

Luckily enough, a couple who lived one block away from the church was selling their home. After some careful consideration, my parents followed through and purchased the house. Within a matter of a few weeks, our belongings were packed up and moved over. Well, most of them. Our couch and a few other minor items remained, though not on purpose.

When the washing machine was moved and the lines capped, we discovered that the water line’s cap was cracked. It was determined that the water needed to be turned off whenever we were not present. We were rather consistent about this since the trailer was not yet empty and we didn’t want any mold issues; my mom had hoped the church could reuse the trailer for families in need. Unfortunately, one day my father forgot. The trailer flooded, the mold grew. On the couch. To be honest, my sisters and I were rather glad that we lost the couch; we had needed a new, more comfortable one for a while. Due to the mold and other later-discovered issues, it was determined that the trailer could not be used. It was demolished; the lot is still empty.

VI.              The Core, the Family

“Home is where the Heart is.”

I lost one house, but gained another. I didn’t lose my home; through it all, I had my family. I had my pets— including some new ones. I had my memories. My life continued. My dad preached at New Melle Baptist Church for many more years before life led him and my mom elsewhere. Both of my sisters moved out, got married, and started their own Trees. Eventually, I started mine. When life got away from me, Christopher and I took our tree and grafted it to another, joining households with family.

Each seed of memory falls and grows into something new.