Here We Go 'Round ...

Our neighbors, Joe and Carrie, have a large tree in their backyard, so close to the edge of their property that it overhangs not only the sidewalk, but the parking strip and street, as well. I rarely notice this tree except in the summer when it produces literally thousands, maybe even millions, of little black berries. From late June until mid-July walking down the sidewalk underneath this tree feels like walking across a bed of slugs—a slight resistance, then an utter sploosh. Unlike the slugs, these berries leave a stain. When the tree is dropping fruit, I do everything I can to avoid it. We have lived two houses down from this tree for almost six years and in all that time I’ve failed to see this large berried tree as anything more than a nuisance or an oddity … until last week when this tree became a delight.

Looking back I realize that there were previews for this feature presentation. A few weeks ago my three year old son asked if we could go and climb Joe and Carrie’s tree. When I told him that it wasn’t a good tree for climbing he replied, “Yes it is. I saw boys in the tree with a ladder.” Six years isn’t a very long time to be a parent, but in that time I’ve learned that there are times when my kids speak nonsense and times when the truth of their words is so unbelievable that it only seems like nonsense. I wasn’t sure into which category Will’s comment fit. The only reason people might bring a ladder to this tree is to pick the berries. Since I was pretty sure that these berries were inedible I could imagine no reason for picking them short of creating berry missiles for the kids of the neighborhood to lob at one another.

The second preview came a few days later when some of the ladies in the church invited me to join them for lunch. As I moved down the buffet table filling my plate with various fare from their ovens and gardens, I noticed a bowl filled with little black berries. Smaller than blackberries but larger than blueberries, I immediately recognized these as the cause of stains on my shoes. “What are these?” I asked. “Mulberries,” replied the lady who had brought them, “just like in the song ‘Here we go round the Mulberry bush,’ except they don’t grow on a bush. They grow on a tree.” They grow on a tree? They grow on a tree … just like the one in Joe and Carrie’s yard. I tossed a couple in my mouth … not bad. Now I was ready for the show.

It began a few days later just a few dozen feet from our back deck. Attempting to appreciate the sun when it showed itself, my wife and I were sitting outside talking about our plans for the weekend. After losing my eye contact one too many times she finally asked what I kept looking at. I pointed behind her, across our neighbor’s yard, toward Joe and Carrie’s house, at a ladder sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. Two neighborhood boys were chasing each other around the ladder while their shirtless friend was perched upon the highest step, bucket in hand. Erin and I began to watch these boys as they traded spots. When one stepped off the ladder another would take his place picking while the other two would resume the game of tag. After a while I noticed that another neighbor, Roberto, was standing at his fence observing these boys with just as much curiosity as Erin and I did.

As we continued to watch the boys’ antics, I began to feel like I was at a drive-in movie. In fact the whole picture felt like something from the 1950’s, a time when kids couldn’t rely on a Wii or an X-box for entertainment. Bereft of virtual realities they were forced to roam their neighborhood in search tangible realities such as Garter snakes, bicycle jumps and low hanging fruit. For just a few moments I caught a glimpse of the community in which many of the folks I know in South Tacoma grew up and raised their kids. For a brief flash in time, I was witness to a reenactment of the stories of their own childhoods, and those of their children. And then, as if the projector bulb had burned out, the ladder was folded and the boys were gone. The show was over and it was once again the summer of 2009.

The fleeting image of those boys with their bucket and ladder calls to mind a Mary Oliver poem that my friend Elliot recently shared with me.

Sometimes

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention,
Be astonished,
Tell about it.”