A Mulberry Tree

I suppose I must be feeling rather nostalgic of late. Because I keep thinking of memories from my childhood.

Like most children, I lived for the summer, even before I went to school. Summer meant a lot of things. Most especially it meant that my older siblings would be home, and we could play. You see, I didn't grow up a suburb or city. We didn't have neighbors, not in the traditional sense, anyway, because our house sat on several acres of land. We were surrounded by fields and orchards. My grandparents lived next to us, on several acres of their own. And sometimes cousins would come to live with them, and we would get to play.

But much of the time, it was just us. I used to think that was a horrible fate. Especially when I got into school and realized that when you live in a traditional neighborhood, their are dozens of kids to play with. I felt cheated out of something then.

I don't think so now.

Because we had lots of things other people didn't have.

Like a wild Mulberry Tree.

I remember being five. I'd wake up in the morning and throw on my shorts and a t-shirt. We'd grab some breakfast and then run down the drive, onto the private lane and then across the small country road right across from our mailbox. And there it was, sitting right on the fence line of our neighbor's field. It would be still slightly cool if it was early enough in the summer. Maybe there would be a nice breeze. Mostly I remember how the sun would shine down through the leaves, illuminating everything, washing over us in a soft, green light.

I always stayed on the ground, but that was okay. The branches dipped low and there was plenty of fruit to be had. Everyone else would start climbing, and I'd watch from below, sometimes sitting in the weeds at the side of the road, looking up at the patches of sunlight, spotted green and red and purple.

My brother Chad was the best climber. I think he might have been part monkey. He'd climb so high up and my heart would pound a little, dizzy at the thought of his fearless assent to the skies. I've always had a problem with heights. But on mornings like that, I would look up and wish I had the courage to climb up so high, scaling the tree limb by limb, all the way to the top, to look around and see the world from above. What it must look like! What a wonder it must be.

And then the morning would start to warm, and we would all begin to tire of too many mulberries. So barefooted, fingers stained with fruit juice, everyone would climb to the ground and gather on the pavement, painted deep purple, mulberries smooshed and squished under the weight of little feet and tractors and the occasional sundry vehicle. We'd trek back home to more pedestrian activities, like running through some sprinklers and jumping on the trampoline.

The tree is long since gone now. Perhaps worries of law suits and liability. Perhaps the tree was taking up valuable property. The once narrow country road is a newer, much wider street. A new neighborhood has cropped up, not far from our own private little lane, most certainly with the playmates I would have wanted, when I was five or six.

I'm sad that the tree is gone. And now I'm even sad that the neighborhood is there. Our magically country road doesn't seem so enchanted anymore. But at least I have the memory of my siblings and me, spread around in the light under that tree, green and bright in the summer sunshine.