A sweet gum tree dominated the front yard of our elderly neighbors, Glen and Gloria Senaker.
Glen always appears in my memory wearing white pressed pants with a tan belt. Tucked into the belt was a light-colored shirt, probably collared, I don’t recall. He was a consummate old man and I loved him. He was stooped and quiet, wrinkled and kind, with a warm smile for us over the chain-link fence that divided our backyard from his.
Gloria, a lovely Hispanic woman, with rich black hair and gentle manners visited with my mother on occasion and I reveled in the polite small talk made in her soft, resplendent voice. She caressed and released the syllables of her words in a rhythm that was unfamiliar but captivating. I loved to hear her speak of their daughter Galena, a name of inexpressible beauty coming from her lips. I felt my life was richer having known Gloria.
Glen and Gloria permitted us the exquisite pleasure of gathering sweet gum balls from their lawn. I remember this happening on only rare occasions. It required adults to be outside with us because the tree stood in their front yard with no barrier from the street.
The front yard and the street were strictly off limits without an adult. The only time I can recall this rule being broken involved the permanent dismissal of a babysitter. During her first and only engagement, she invited us outside to fly kites in the street. She also burned my mother’s decorative candles. I remember well my parents’ shock and indignation at this double infraction of babysitter etiquette. She was not welcome back.
Oh, the joy of traipsing among the thickly-strewn gum balls in my purple jellies! Prickly spikes clasped between fingers keen to possess, I savored the sharp pleasure of almost—but not quite—pricking my fingers on their spines. I spun the stems between thumb and forefinger delighting in their fierce aspect. They looked like tiny whirling planets, dazzling worlds of ferocious peaks and cavernous valleys.
They looked as they wanted to look. Some plants seem to be putting on a show; sweet gum balls are genuine. They aren’t nice, but they are captivating.
My parents were always nearby as I gloried under the sweetgum. The hum of their voices mingled with Glen and Gloria’s. There was a feeling of community, of camaraderie, of celebration. A sense of permission, of revelry, of license. I remember laughter, always laughter, in the fading evening light.
Many years later, in Charleston, South Carolina, my nine-year-old daughter and I went to a park together. We desperately needed a break.
It was in the early stages of my separation from my husband; I was still unsure if this would be temporary or permanent, and if temporary, brief or protracted. We were staying with my sister, who had kindly offered a spare room in her apartment, and we spent our days caring for her eighteen-month-old daughter while she worked.
We were hot, sticky, exhausted, weary, hopeless. We tried to play but we didn’t have the heart.
It seemed that everything important to me was out of my control. I felt trapped and lonely. I couldn’t choose sobriety for my husband, and he certainly couldn’t choose it for me, much less for himself.
I was barely hanging on myself, and yet I was responsible for the physical and emotional needs of my daughter and niece, two little girls who found themselves temporarily without fathers and who were struggling to make sense of their changing worlds.
My sister and I had, in our own neediness and blind exhaustion, stumbled into a miscommunication earlier in the day, and I felt frustrated, disappointed in myself, and alone.
I called my dad. Or he called me. I don’t remember. It had been many years since I had shared even somewhat freely with him, but I opened up that day about some of our struggles. He listened. It meant a lot.
I felt guilty about abandoning my daughter to play on her own, but I had reached a breaking point, and I knew it was vital that I talk to someone who I wasn’t responsible for, who wasn’t depending on me, who didn’t need me to be strong, calm, collected, comforting.
But I couldn’t leave her utterly alone. Covering the receiver, I whispered to her to gather as many different types of leaves, cones, and sticks as she could find. She hauled in armfuls of pinecones, oak leaves, twigs, and sweet gum balls, and we began to sort and arrange our treasures. She placed a fragile piece of lichen on a bed of fresh, green leaves and we encircled it with sweet gum.
I had wrapped up the conversation with my dad before we had finished adding layers of sticks, leaves, and pinecones. I felt more at ease. I had a plan that I believed would bring some peace and much-needed routine to our days.
I love what my daughter and I created out of chaos together. I see the tiny lichen and fresh leaves, beautiful and protected, like the eye of the storm. We have both lost many memories from that chaotic era of our lives, but we fondly recall working alongside each other to bring even a little joy, beauty, and serenity into our corner of this star-crossed, storm-tossed world.
Rachel Brown
enjoys sipping tea, savoring good books, and spending time outside.
She is daily inspired to live more deeply and love more fully by her husband and two children.