Thursday, March 13, 2008

Roots for Wings

I took the boys and Wolf's little half brother and sister (ages 8 and 6) to the local park the other day. Sitting on the site of the old library (but in the same general area), this park was a staple of my childhood. The tall metal slide that was hotter than hell in the summer, a log teepee thing we climbed on, all that is gone and has been replaced by nifty train-themed equipment that is divided up in areas so all the kids, regardless of age, have a spot to play safely. Not that I totally agree with this; heck, I played on the teepee when I was too young, got stuck at the top, and ended up falling off with little damage done. But, times have changed I guess, and the children had a blast.

As the kids and I were walking home, young "S" walked with Bear and me and listened as I regailed them with my Issaquah knowledge. "So and so lived here, he was a mean man who got mad when we jumped over his hedge." "I used to go swimming in the creek down that street, we'd go all the way to lake Sammamish and then walk home." Impressed, S asked if I missed living here. I said I did sometimes, because there were so many things that were the same.

My roots run deep here. I went running the evening I arrived and kept going and going, jogging past all the places I used to ride my bike as a kid (with, I might add, no helmet or care of getting run over). Spring has arrived now, and with it comes the old houses with tulips and crocuses and little pots of primroses on their front porches. The smell of plum blossoms was almost overwhelming for the familiarity of it. I almost told Yukon that we needed to come back when I talked on the phone to him. I almost couldn't stand being so far away.

But the wings stopped me. My parents, for years, kept this verse hanging on their wall; "There are two lasting gifts parents can give their children. One is roots, the other, wings...."

I don't think the blossoms would have smelled so sweet, nor the flowers seemed so bright, had I not had wings.

1 comment:

dorothy said...

I am so there with you! Did you run up past the cemetery to the farm? That live from the top of the hill is such a memory to me. If you get the chance hit the cemetery, follow the road to the right past those poky up trees until it curves off to the left and keep following the left to the tree with a stone bench under it - that is my dads bench. Have you walked past the horse-chestnut trees one street past my parents house or the stinky salmon ones in front? (What was with those trees anyway?!) I don't think we can ever move back, but we can sure love the years upon years of memories that are there. Give your parents a hug from me.