The Mulberry Tree II

 The Mulberry Tree

Other kids had tall sentinel oaks dropping helicopters that danced and spun in the wind, or majestic maples throwing acorns to the squirrels. They stood tall on broad thick trunks and dwarfed the houses in their shade. No grass could grow beneath them for they blocked all the sun. Nor could we ever dream of climbing the giants for the lowest branch was miles above our heads. To us, their sole purpose was to serve as home base. It was a place where a Seeker could lean their forehead. With eyes closed and a limited view if they tried to peek due to the sheer girth of the trees, they would chant: 

“Last night, 

Night before, 

24 robbers at my door

I got up,

Let them in,

Hit ‘em in the head

With a rolling pin. 

One, two, three,… ” 

… while everyone else sprinted to find the perfect hiding place.

However, the tree in our backyard was special. It was not a tool to be used in play. It took care of us. We were sent out in the morning and not allowed back in the house until dinner time. There was no snacking; it could ruin your appetite. Some got lunch; most – did not. So, it became our tree of life. It was a beautiful –  squat, short and wide with limbs and leaves that branched out into a huge Angela Davis afro. It was decorated with delicious purple, red and black mulberries that were covered in tiny squishy cracks and crevices waiting for us to eat. At its base was a trunk with the most perfectly gnarly twists and turns that were stairsteps to the fruit ladened branches above. All the neighborhood kids would converge on our treasure in the afternoons and climb as high as we could reach, straddle a sturdy branch, and pluck the juicy berries that stained our hands permanently purple and popped them in our mouths. We stuffed ourselves until we could not make room for one more single berry.  Then, we’d carefully climb back down and run off to play – pausing only to wipe spider webs from the rusty water spigot beside the house before taking a cool drink.  

One day, my daddy, tethered to his oxygen tank, leaned out the window and called down to me to get a bowl, and fill it up with mulberries for him, which I happily did. After quickly scrambling up and gathering as many as the bowl could hold without losing my balance, I ran back into the house and handed it to him.

He said, “No, go into the kitchen and fill the bowl with water. Then pour salt into it, and let it sit for an hour.”

Salt? I was grossed out, but I did what I was told. Why in the world he wanted salt on his berries was beyond my comprehension. After an hour, he called me back in and told me to go get the bowl. He told me to pour off the water, then rinse them. 

When I went to grab the bowl, I froze. 

There, floating on top of the water, were thousands of tiny little black bugs. 

I was beyond speechless.

It was absolutely disgusting.

I miss those mulberries. 

They really were so sweet and delicious. But, needless to say, that was absolutely the last time I ever put another mulberry in my mouth.

** This story was inspired by a prompt from EthicalELA.com I wrote it as a poem for them yesterday and prose today.

My Mulberry Tree

My Mulberry Tree

Behind our house

Was the most beautiful tree. 

It had an Afro

That spread wide

Decorated with 

Purple red black 

Mulberries

Covered in tiny crack and crevices.

Its trunk 

Short, squat and gnarly

Steps for us 

to climb

Up

Into the fruit-ladened

Branches.

We straddled

Them as we plucked

And popped berries

Into our mouths

With our forever purple

Stained hands.

My daddy,

Tethered 

to his oxygen tank,

Called down one day.

“Get a bowl, 

Fill it

With berries.”

I did.

“Now, cover it 

with water,

Pour in 

Salt.

Let it sit

For an hour.”

In one hour

I grabbed 

the bowl.

And Froze.

Tiny Black 

Bugs

Floated

Swam

Covered

The top of the 

Water

That covered

The mulberries.

Many 

Many

Bugs.

I miss mulberries.

I never ate 

another one.

Spring Fever

It is truly that time of year. The restlessness has set in and the lack of focus is impacting work. Everyone is suddenly tardy as if there is no concern for consequences. Reports are turned in late – if at all. Patience and respect for others is all but gone and there is the occasional shouting or bitter bite-back talk and sass in the hall. Admin is rarely available to quell any issues, and when they are, even they find a little pushback. Spring fever and the nearness to the end has truly affected everyone. Everyone is ready for summer … and so are the students.

The Reluctant Student

 She is a force to be reckoned with.  She transferred into my class two months after the start of the year , but had no fear. She has a quick tongue and wants nothing more than to let it be known that she is in the room. Unlike the other girls who wear cropped tops or tees that are twisted into a knot in the back to show their waists or shirts that cut wide at the neck to bare their shoulders, she wears long skirts to her ankles and hoodies that hide everything else.  A clear sign that some type of ultra strict religion is involved. I noticed her body turned slightly away from my book display at Halloween where I placed books about the Day of the Dead and Day of the Dead Barbie dolls from my exclusive Barbie doll collection. I removed them and then went further to remove my Harry Potter Collection. She never said they bothered her, but when I pointed out that I sensed her discomfort and had moved them, she grabbed me and gave me the biggest hug.  

My student does not get get grades. Other teachers thought she was a struggling student. I sensed otherwise. She doesn't like to do the work, so she doesn't. It has become a battle of wills. When asked why she doesn't, she says she has to take care of  her four siblings until her mother gets home. When I threatened to email parents of those who had not done their work, she goaded me." Go ahead, she won't answer. She never reads it anyway." She was right. 

I tell her I don't care, I am going to stay on her and not let her fail, and she smiles. But she still did not write the essay.

Every question is answered with negativity. When I ask how was your weekend, or day, or evening, she always says, "Terrible." When I create a silly morning question of the day about which is better, Adidas or Nike, she quips, "Neither, they are an overpriced waste of money."  No matter the discussion, she shouts out the loudest most pessimistic phrase she can muster.

For spring break she complained because her family was going to Peru and that it was going to be horrible while I tried to engage her in conversations about seeing her grandmother to no avail.  

Upon their return from spring break, I circulated around the room to ask my other students how they spent their weekend. She actually said the first positive thing ever. She said it was better than she expected. And when I finally had spoken to every child and returned to my desk, I couldn't believe what I found. I looked up and across the room at her and saw her looking at me side-eyed with a sly little smile on her face.  There in the center, sat the most beautiful hand painted mug from Peru. 

Dawn's Star

As she quietly rose

in the dark,

She reached out 

and turned on 

a small light.

Muted purples and pinks

snaked across the floor

Beneath a wall of

Black blue 

Expanse filled.

A curtain of smokey grey shadows 

Gently took her hand,

helped her rise up,

and hid her

blushed orange body

As she dressed.

Finally,

She took the stage

In her most brilliant yellow,

a vibrance

man could not look upon,

And was a star.

Ocean's Lullaby

As I sit here in my favorite Caribbean getaway, I am drawn to write about the 'sound of the water that softly calls out to me.

Ocean's lullaby

sings us quietly to sleep

music for the soul

o

I Am Back!

Living with two persnickety, attention-seeking discs (C5, C6 and L5,S1) requires careful and thoughtful movements. They will go all out to steal the attention of any extracurricular events going on in your life. You can be preparing to leave for your 10 day dream vacation and dragging your super-stuffed, supersized suitcase out to the car when one or both of them will jump up and down screaming we want to go. Your knees will buckle under the weight of them, your body will do a momentary spasmic dance, and your vocal chords will chime in with a soprano-like call and response. 

You call out, "Ah!"

Your spouse responds, "Are you okay?"  

Because you are not canceling your vacation, you breathlessly lie, "Yes, I'm fine," and resign yourself to bringing the duo along. 

Then, you engage the emergency tactical disc car entry protocol: Sitting Help Intervention Technique (S.H.I.T). You turn your body sideways, back up to the open car door, carefully sit, and gently lift one leg, then the other before slowly turning in the seat to face forward and begin to dig in your purse for a naproxen.