Meet Me on the Corner

I've been thinking of my father lately; one night I was remembering how he used to meet me on the corner when I walked home from my best friend’s house after dark. If I could define the word “safety” it would be that moment when I would spy my father under the street lamp waiting. I would call from Beth’s house just as I was leaving, at nine, ten or maybe 11 o’clock, depending upon my age, and say, “Leaving.”  Then I would scoot out her front door and confront the dark, empty street, either walking or on my bike, and by the time I got to the corner, there Dad would be, often smoking his pipe. Never, ever, did he let me down. 

            Nothing  sinister or dangerous ever happened, and probably never would have, because Schenectady, NY,  in those days was pretty safe, and my street and Beth’s were quiet. But Dad was no fool and being linked into the court system as the director of probation he knew that crimes did occur even in safe neighborhoods where we didn’t even lock our doors (at least, not during the day). 

             No matter what he was doing he dropped it to escort me safely home, and he never told me he couldn’t meet me, or denied me the fun of going to Beth’s house to hang out with my friend, or was too drunk to get to the corner (the man did not drink, except maybe a tiny glass of port or a cold beer on a hot day though I don’t even remember that), or too tired, or too anything, and he never sighed or sounded exasperated or annoyed, and he was always, always there to answer the phone. The message was that I was a VIP. And there is no better, no more important message for a little girl (or a teenaged girl, or maybe a girl of any age) to receive from her father.

This is not to say we didn’t have our issues, particularly during my teen years when I started wearing mini-skirts and white lipstick. My dad didn’t seem to know what to do with my budding sexuality, so he withdrew for a few years, looking a bit disgusted and disgruntled when I’d dress for a date. In due time he relaxed a bit; not only did I acquire a steady boyfriend, but the late sixties and early seventies were a time of baggy painter pants and construction boots. He couldn’t very well disapprove of that, though I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled with the braless part. Ironically, it was my proper and gentlemanly dad who accompanied me to buy my very first bra, standing uncomfortably in the ladies’ loungewear department of our local department store when I was in fourth grade, because my mother was bedridden with a slipped disc just when all the girls in my class were getting their first bras (clearly, few of us actually needed them).  He stood there like a trooper, while I marched up to the counter and bought what I desired; a little piece of stretchy cotton called a training bra. My parents never discussed sex with me, though my mother did hand me a pamphlet about menstruation when I was 12.

            Times were different. I never heard my parents utter a single swear word (my children learned a host of expletives from me early on in life!). I did once hear my father bellow “Son of a B!” as he raced through our house and out the back door in his pajamas (I think there may have been a stray dog or a raccoon in our backyard).  Beth and I had a good laugh over that for years. His code words for caution were simply, “Hey-hey!” Basically that either meant “Watch out!” or “Stop it right now!” The odd little word-combo had power: I never even considered ignoring it.

            It’s decades now since my father passed, and I still miss him. Happy Father’s Day to all fathers; I hope you know how truly important you are. 

 

Mysteries of Trees

 

I’m sure there’s an un-magical explanation for almost everything in the Universe, but sometimes I prefer to conjure up my own meaning. Take the case of five plum trees that mysteriously appeared in my backyard one day. No one planted them. They sprouted in a perfect line, four to five feet apart, along an unattractive green fence that my former neighbor erected 20 years ago when she acquired a tiny, yapping (though adorable) dog.

 

On this fairly neglected side of my small backyard, there is a pear tree (the newbies do not resemble it). There is also a flowering plum tree I planted; it picked up some sort of illness and hasn’t grown much in 15 years. If I were a botanist I might be able to reveal how the new trees sprang from the elder trees (if that’s the case), or how a bird dropped seeds in a perfect line, or provide some other logical scientific explanation. But for me, the case is more clearly explained by the fact that I never admired that little green fence (also, I harbored a certain annoyance because said neighbor had a habit of ripping down the honeysuckle that grew upon it).

 

That neighbor (of whom I grew quite fond) has since moved; the fence remains and my new neighbor spends the spring season generously planting flowers all over her yard. Maybe it’s the general attitude on this end of my block now that promotes the growing of things (at the other end of my dead-end street folks seem to prefer to chop down trees and plant cement). Or maybe it’s that the Universe heard my lament about the honeysuckle. Or maybe the powers that be took pity when it was observed that my plum tree was doing poorly, that our pear trees are getting old, or that I still mourn an apple tree that met an untimely demise.

 

In any case, I somehow missed the appearance of the five saplings for several years (I did mention my neglect of that area), and by the time they caught my eye last spring they were nearly three feet tall, and looked suspiciously promising. So I left them alone. Yesterday, when I looked outside I noticed that one had burst into pink bloom, and the others are readying their blossoms. Yes, they are still small…four feet tall perhaps at this point. But they will one day be taller and fuller, and hopefully will detract from the fence.

            

Magical things do pop up in life, like ideas for writing, plum (or cherry) trees, friendships, opportunities, shoes that fit perfectly and are on sale, ice cream cones, soul mates etc. and though we want and need to explain many things sometimes it’s better just to open our arms and accept. I’m grateful that I ignored that part of my yard for so long--my neglect allowed the trees to grow to the point where they could be noticed and valued for what they truly are. Had I been puttering about over there I most likely would have thought they were among the scores of stray oak or maple saplings that pop up every year (I can’t nurture them all, I don’t have the space for a forest). Had I pulled them up I would have missed the magic.

 

So thank you, Universe, elves, fairies, or industrious garden birds or savvy squirrels. Sometimes, tiny miracles sprout when we’re not even paying attention.