Remembering Roots

Over and over again I remember my days in California. I don’t know if it is because of California, or if it was my age at the time. The first five years of life are epic in discovery – so many impacts, the large and small of existence, the wonder and awe and yet the happiness of being cared for and embraced in family.

Early years I think are like that. I recall becoming aware of pleasant aromas coming from flowers or flowering shrubs. How delightful it was to smell and know where it came from. Do you remember those moments, too? Do you remember when you realized the caress of kind temperatures and humidity levels in the air surrounding you? When you looked up in the sky did you wonder about the blue? Or the clouds and their shapes; and then see that they were moving? What about key features of the landscape – the open meadows, the mountains, the deserts, the trees – what did you think of them; how did you see them and notice them?

When very young, life around us comes to our notice. In bits and pieces, yes; and eventually in scenarios and larger ‘pictures’ or ensembles. A sense of presence and surrounding comes over us. Awareness but not necessarily cogent meaning takes some form of shape in our minds. Later we can make more sense of it as we gather experiences and signals that are available in our environment. We sense the world is there and slowly absorb it and come to some sort of understanding about it. Imperfect but in part.

I recall early mornings in Altadena, California. Dad was off to work, my brother and sister were off to school and mom and I were home getting the day’s chores done. Not so much me. I was dressed and ready for the day but unprogrammed as to what was to be done for the day. I remember placing my cheek on the window glass facing south. The morning sun was warming; the dewy front yard sparkled. A soft breeze barely moved the pine tree, palm tree and shrubbery. Birds flitted about drinking dew drops. An occasional car passed on the street with a swish of air.

I opened the window and felt the cool morning air. It was moist and refreshing. Temperature was cool but warming in the sun. Bird calls were sounding and the day was coming alive. This was a winter day awakening in southern California in the late 1940’s, probably 1947 or so. It was peaceful. Safe. A place and time for wonder.

I was probably 5 years old and not yet in school. But I remember. Do you remember back then when you were that age? Do such memories niggle your current thoughts from time to time?

I can be in a meeting with the office door or window propped open and an aroma, sound or movement happens. It distracts my attention and for a slight moment my mind travels back to a time long ago. It almost feels real and of this moment. Then poof – back to the meeting, the present.

Food cooking smells wafting near trigger similar memories. And sounds, too. Transports of the past that somehow inform the present. Is it something missing or needed? Or is it merely a pleasantness of life’s fullness remaining in a mindful bouquet?

We lived one block from a golf course. North and above it were meadowed pastures of the foothills. Those pastures were home to horses and breeding operations for nearby Santa Anita racetrack. The horse farms were places of wealth and beauty. Peacocks strode the lawns. Lush lawns they were, too, abundantly covering the landscape and neatly embracing languid homes of privilege. Sweeping vistas, driveways and fencing framed life in a special ideal way. And just a short walk from home and streets of suburban normalcy.

The mountains behind our home were tall – 7500 feet – and home to Mount Wilson Observatory. We could see the ‘W’ cut into the forest of pines marking the mount’s proud presence. On cold wintry mornings we could spot the snow line on the mountain as its tendrils crept ever lower toward the foothill communities. Only once in my memory did the snow reach us. And the schools were closed for that day! And my Minnesota-born mom taught us how to make snow angels.

Those memories stick. Those scenarios remain forever embedded in the mind. For whatever reason I know not.

Oh idyllic memories mix with not so pleasant ones, too. Like smoggy hot days that hurt the lungs to breathe, or the asthma attacks that gripped my young body in those days. Indoors I went and remained until the air was clearer and better to inhale without pain or ache. Smog was real. It kept getting worse. And the traffic, too, heavier and heavier, especially in front of our home. Our neighborhood was feeling the effects of urbanization and the post war economic boom.

Soon we moved farther east toward Pomona and Claremont. We built a new home in what was once an orange grove. Much of that grove remained until all the homes were finally built and the trees removed. We still had one orange tree and two lemon trees in our back yard. The orange tree didn’t survive construction activities. The lemon trees did and boy did we have fresh lemonade and lemon pies!

Soon after building the home dad got a job in Massachusetts. We moved in summer of 1954 and said goodbye to a southern California that would never be the same again. And we were off to a region so different from our experience that breadth and depth of life experiences were aiming for a jolt.

The process of growing up and aging. It is all of one piece with many chapters. Each moment is a lesson. Each its own chapter of consciousness. And conscience? When did that come about and from which of the many chapters preceding it?

The fabric of life is woven from many threads and all is good. Especially when we ponder upon them.

January 17,  2017