Tracing Gold

a cosmic screenplay

Dear Friends,

I am grateful to report from cancerland that my scans were good and my latest treatment is working! More good time is such sweetness.

For today’s entry I was inspired by Kim Richey’s new album, in particular the song Chapel Avenue where she remembers her childhood and “the gold of yesterday.”

And all the gold of yesterday
Is a debt I can’t repay
I owe it all to you
Chapel Avenue

If songs had a color, this one would be sepia toned and full of warmth. It took me on my own trip through my childhood memories surrounded by the memories of other generations, sifting through our gold.

Once again, I am caught up in the way time and space collapse as I can see a cinematic fade from one generation to the next, as if we are part of a cosmic screenplay.

I trace the legacy of play and backyard memories through the generations, just as I could trace the love of music, the curiosity about how things work, the appreciation of good food and how to cook it, the commitment to being about something bigger than ourselves.

FADE IN
EXT. 1940’s HOUSE (YARD WITH TREE) – DAY

My dad and his brothers play fighter pilot in the tree in the yard, acting as lookouts, and taking turns being bombardier. Military personnel board in their home during World War II fueling the boys’ imagination.

His mom, my grandma, cooks a roast on the weekend and then makes sandwiches for the week for family and boarders, slices of roast beef so thin they were nearly transparent. One slice between bread with mayo makes a sandwich.

The cross-country road trip, with bickering brothers being tossed out of the car to walk a mile to the top of the next rise. Memories of these days sharp to the end, even recounting this trip on the 78^th anniversary to the day of the trip, shortly before he died.

I could feel his comfort in these memories.

FADE OUT

FADE IN
EXT. RANCH STYLE HOUSE 1970’s (YARD WITH OLIVE TREES) - DAY

There were 8 olive trees in the yards of my childhood house in a subdivision built in an old olive orchard. Today with specialty olive oils and such, this sounds much more idyllic than it was. The trees provided ammunition for my brother and I and the neighbor kids to pelt each other in boys vs. girls battles. They also had pollen in the spring that my grandma was so allergic to that she could not come to our house for weeks.

They grew heavy with green olives, which we never picked or cured or turned into oil. Instead, they ripened to soft purple fruits that fell all over the yard, and our bare feet were stained purple all summer from stepping on overripe olives. Fallen olive leaves pricked our feet with their sharp ends.

My dad built a two-story treehouse into one of these olive trees. This might have been the only thing he ever built, a labor of love and I’m sure some frustration. Here we staged our battles some days, and other days we mixed potions.

On summer nights, the attic fan pulled cooler air through the house along with the scent of jasmine. One summer my parents got a new mattress and decided to put their old mattress on an old frame in the backyard under the trees.  After the intense heat of the day, I remember the comfort of sleeping outside in the soft summer night air.

A flowered cloth suitcase became a briefcase for my brother and I to play secret agents Maxwell Smart and Agent 99. Other times we reenacted an episode we had seen on the Wonderful World of Disney about a brother and sister, orphaned, lost and on the run.

On my own, I became Harriet the Spy, having checked out and read the book over and over. I had my mini top-edge spiral bound notebook and a pencil, and I would stand on the water pipe outside my brother’s window to spy on him and his friend and note down their rather unremarkable activities.

I spent a lot of time imagining myself in stories I read: The Little House Books, Professor Diggins’ Dragons, Where the Lilies Bloom.

We ran with a pack of neighbors in the summer and one year we put together a play that we staged for our parents in a backyard. I remember no details other than that the pursuit occupied us for days and we were quite proud of ourselves. I believe it was an original script.

My mom taught us to make piecrust and bake cookies and knead bread, and when we were sick, she smoothed our bed sheets and made juice from frozen concentrate with lots of ice in a thermos with a straw.

At night, I would be tucked into my lower bunk under the hot pink ribbed bedspread with nighttime lullabies, Suliram and All through the Night.

FADE OUT

FADE IN
EXT. CITY NEIGHBORHOOD HOUSE 1990’s (YARD WITH TALL REDWOOD TREE) - DAY

What stories will they tell?

Summers in the blow-up pool, in the sandbox with the hose. Rose petals, and gardens growing over time. A tiny peach tree that grew with them. Digging a hole to make a mud puddle to sit in. Their favorite mandarins on our own tree. Climbing up the inside of the tall redwood, up the closely spaced branches like a ladder. Playing knights and Robin Hood and the whole imagined world of Sarah Strawberry. Razzle Dazzle Wisdom School in the closet, stuffed animals lined up for learning. Legos and trains and baking brownies. Biking up and down the block. Chalked hopscotch on the sidewalk, and the basketball scores of the driveway match of Bibby vs. Bobby played in their jerseys. Wednesday mornings at the farmer’s market and library followed by reading the new pile of books on the couch. Bedtime stories and a nighttime prayer grown so familiar it became a call and response:

Guardian angels            whom we love
Shine on us                        from up above
In the morning                 when I wake
Show me the path        of love to take

FADE OUT

FADE IN
EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE FUTURE

A new generation playing in another yard, hearing, creating and reenacting stories, being tucked in safe and loved at night. The wheel of time turns, collapsing time and space again. We are bound with an unbreakable cord of love.

I hope that you can trace some gold from your yesterdays and carry it to the future.

Thanks for being here. I appreciate you.

Lots of love,

Maija

Song of the Week: Chapel Avenue by Kim Richey and just because it’s beautiful, a video of Miriam Makeba singing Suliram.

The Whole Playlist of Songs of the Week:

Healing Happens on Spotify

Healing Happens on Apple Music