Season to Season

I often sat next to Father on an old tree stump surrounded by ancient trees listening to him tell fairy tales about trees—tales of trees with human faces, tales of trees that talked, and tales of trees that sometimes walked. The old growth forest surrounded us, alive with hidden secrets.   The trees rose upward forever, and the canopy above us was distant, like clouds of green.   With my arms out-stretched, I knew I’d never be able to reach even a fraction of the way around the trees’ gnarly bark trunks.     I often return to the old growth forest; it is the place where I go for rest and for serenity that   flows like cool river waters. The path snakes around the ancient trees; and I step carefully over the roots that knot the pathway, watching the freshly fallen rain seep into the soil, struck by a wish to melt in with it—not to die but to live forever amongst these ancient beings who cast the shadow in which I stand. The old growth forest doesn’t care for seconds

I awoke to the familiar sound of dishes rattling in Mother’s kitchen and to the thick scent of coffee wafting through the air. I glanced out my bedroom window; the neighborhood was lit by the first rays of the day shining through a thin layer of gray clouds like a stained glass window.   The trees, no longer their virescent hues of spring and summer, were scarlet, gold, and copper.   Mesmerized, I watched the leaves fall off the trees gently swaying in the November wind.   A sigh rose in my throat as I thought about what was lacking that Thanksgiving Day.   I joined Mother in the kitchen, mildly curious about the Thanksgiving brunch she’d planned for us at an undeveloped park outside of town.   Instead of cooking the usual Thanksgiving fare, Mother prepared a thermos of hot cocoa for my brothers and me and another thermos of coffee for her and Father.  “This will be fun, sweetie.   Wait and see.”   I smiled, covering up my disappointment, and helped Mother pack a bo

North Texas summers are hot and dry and generally quite humid. And in the summer of 1961, the scorching sunlight and intense heat ignited one of the worst droughts on record. The sidewalks sizzled and roasted my bare feet, and the heat permeated the already parched ground in front of our home leaving huge cracks and crevices. The grassy lawns—yellow and burnt—smelled like bales of hay that had been sitting in the summer fields too long. We couldn’t afford air conditioning; and even though the air outside was motionless, Mother opened the windows wide every morning.   As each day progressed the oppressive heat thickened, singing the air in our tiny two-bedroom home making it feel stagnant and suffocating. So I often spent my summer days sitting by the open windows reading a book and—despite the still air—smelling the sweet aroma of Mother’s honeysuckle vines.   Occasionally, I escaped outdoors riding my bike up and down the neighborhood streets pedaling at white heat s

“Point your feet!   Rotate!   Don’t stick your butts out!   Stay out of your heels.”   I looked up from where I was sitting.     There was no music—only the thump-thud sound of the dancers en pointe and the ballet master shouting.   “Dance to the tips of your fingers and toes!   Plié !   Spot!”   Ann obeyed; sweat ran down her face.   “ Tours chaînés déboulés ,” the master barked.   She struggled as her sleek muscles quivered with exhaustion.   I’d never seen my aunt rehearsing.   So, the contrast between seeing her stage performance—where she glided effortlessly on the tips of her pointe shoes—and seeing her studio rehearsal baffled me.      “ Rond de Jambe en l’air and Frappé .”   The master paused; the dancers gathered at the barre.   “ Fifth position, preparation sur le cou de pied .   Single frappe en croix each position getting two counts. ”   He strolled around the dance studio.     “ Close Fifth position front.”   Ann panted for breath.   “ Single r

        It was just before dawn as I ran along the wooded trails adjacent to my home.   I was making a slow and painful headway against a stiff autumn wind when dense fog settled all around me.   Suddenly, I felt as if something was coming up behind me.   My heartbeat quickened as did my pace.   Who or what was following me in the silent darkness ?           Was it a small animal searching for food?   Was it another lone runner seeking refuge and contemplation in the predawn stillness?   I turned around and looked behind me and thought I saw the black, shadowy figure of a woman following me.   She trailed me, hushed as the night, dancing between the trees as the sunlight flickered.   So I moved aside to avoid her presence, but I couldn’t escape her.   She was the immaculate outline of my shape, an echo of my movements, and my lifetime companion.   She was my shadow swirling in the mists, brought into being by the little flashlight I carried with me.   But she’s more than

When I was a small child, I rose on my tiptoes and stared out our living room window, watching and waiting until Father arrived home from work.   “Mama,” I hollered as soon as I saw his pickup truck round the corner, “Daddy’s home!”   Then I raced to the front door to greet him.   Although he was weary, he often picked me up and twirled me around until I said, “Daddy, daddy, stop! Pleeeease!”   He eased me down; and we giggled together, walking hand-in-hand towards the kitchen where I sat on his lap while he drank a cup of steaming coffee and talked with Mother about his day.      Now and then Father stood at the front door with his hands behind his back.   “Pick a hand,” he’d say.   His words touched me like an electrical current, for I knew hidden behind Father and buried in the folds of one of his hands was a surprise meant just for me. “This one,” I shouted, pointing wildly.   He whisked out his hand and slowly, too slowly, uncurled his fingers.   Finally, there it w

          Most mornings Mother brewed herself a cauldron of thick, black coffee; poured herself a steaming cup; sat in her easy chair; opened her dictionary; and studied its pages in much the same way a sorceress studies a book of magical potions. “Words are things of beauty,” she said as I nestled up next to her. “Each is like a magical powder that can be combined to create powerful potions and spells.” But all I saw was a flat object full of f limsy pages on which were printed lots of funny dark squiggles.           I suppose Mother wanted me to share her passion for words and to learn how to create my own powerful spells with them. So, on my eighth birthday she gave me my first dictionary, The Oxford Children’s Dictionary; and I became her rather reluctant apprentice. While most children my age listened to bedtime stories, my bedtime regime included listening to Mother read a page from the dictionary—a practice that continued well into my high school years.           Be

My mother once told me that creating art in all its forms (art, music, and writing) is the expression of a seemingly misfit genius. I've often pondered what "genius" is and what does being a genius have to do with writing. Yesterday, I read the following and suddenly understood genius and creativity in a whole new light. "Ideas are always circulating in the collective unconscious, and prepared minds are ready to receive and translate those ideas. That is the nature of genius, to be able to grasp the knowable even when no one else recognizes that it's present. At any given moment, the innovation, creative idea, or creative expression doesn't exist, and in the next moment it's part of our consciousness." (Deepak Chopra) I'm grateful that my mother prepared my mind and encouraged me to be a misfit.

            From the beginning, my father was always there for me. He spilt tears of happiness whenever he held me in his arms. He carried me on his back and sometimes tossed me in the air. He caught me when I took my first steps and stumbled. He helped me color inside the lines and told me stories about Indians and the passage of time. He was the master chef who taught me how to make grilled cheese and spam sandwiches. He taught me how to put a minnow on a fishing line, toss it in Lake Lavon, and wait until the bobber sank under the surface of the water. He taught me how to tie my shoes and ride a bike. He sat with me by a campfire, told me stories, and set my spirit and imagination free. On the first day of school, he held my hand and walked me to the front door. With tears in his eyes, he hugged me and gave me courage by saying, “You are my brave daughter. I love you.” When mother told me to ask for his permission, he would always say, “Go ask your mother.” He was there to somet

Early one Saturday morning when I was about ten, Father gently nudged me from a deep slumber.   “Time to go fishin’, Sweetie.”   Reluctantly I uncovered my face; blinked; closed my eyes; and blinked again.   I sat up, stretched my arms above my head; and yawned, remembering how I’d pleaded with him the night before.   “May I go with you, pleeeease Daddy?” I begged.   Taking me wasn’t easy, for I was squeamish around worms and water.   But I’d tolerate almost anything just to have some alone time with Father.   “But Daddy, it’s dark outside.   Aren’t the fish sleeping?”   “They’ll be awake soon enough.   Get a move on!”   He loaded me and his fishing gear into his pickup truck and drove to nearby Lake Lavon where—at the crack of dawn—he launched his flat bottom boat, the Nini-Poo, into the water.   It was a sultry, windless August morning; and the lake—flat as any mirror—lay before us without a single ripple as if time itself had been frozen.   From the tall pines aroun

Gravel crackled under our tires as Bill and I crept down Old Mill Road, a meandering country road on the outskirts of Collin County. The countryside stretched before us like a great quilt of golden, brown, and green squares held together by the thick green stitching of the hedgerows. The sun overhead was radiant, its light bathing the scenery in a welcoming glow. We slowed our car to a near stop and rolled down our windows, taking in the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells. Hay bales dotted the landscape.   A tractor kicked up dust in a nearby field.   Wildflowers, dandelions, and purple thistles covered the road’s shoulder, filling the drainage ditches with an array of color.   We heard the whicker of horses, the braying of donkeys, and the burble of water running along a small stream.   We inhaled, the sweet aroma of tress, grass, and earth filling our nostrils.       The gravel road turned abruptly, replaced by a narrow, two-lane county road. We continued driving,

Mother’s rectangular-shaped kitchen was tiny—no more than 7 feet long and 5 feet wide—which was to be expected since the house itself was small, less than 1,000 square feet. And like most houses built in the early 1950’s, the kitchen was designed primarily for functionality, equipped with only the basics—a moderate-sized refrigerator, a full-size gas range with stove, yet little countertop and storage space.   In fact, storage was so sparse that Mother kept her pots and pans in the oven overnight and removed them the next morning when she prepared breakfast. I learned to cook standing alongside her but often complained about her cramped, cracker box kitchen. “I hate cooking in here!   There’s no room for anything!   It’s ALWAYS hot in here, and I can’t breathe!”   I’d open the kitchen window and fan myself rather dramatically.   “You know, clean up would be so much easier if you just had a dishwasher and disposal.”   “Listen here, Missy!” Mother turned to me with a scowled expr