Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Mother?
This is the question Michael asked when we made our way to our camp site. This is because the minute we got there I said: We’re moving here. Peter and Michael were–not quite by almost–in shock.
They looked at each other and this was just so funny. It was like a Bugs Bunny cartoon or something like that.
“But you always say when we come back home that it’s only nice because it’s a vacation.” This was from Peter. I brushed that aside.
“That was then but I never drove through the Lehigh Tunnel before. Now I know.”
Yes, there is a humorous side to this memoir but underneath there is dead seriousness. My inner self, the one of which I’m not always conscious, registered the fact of death I’d been living with during the second half of our 25 years spent in a suburb of Philadelphia.
I wasn’t a nature fan. I didn’t watch birds, I didn’t go on hikes, I never enjoyed the leaves of our huge oak trees making their way down in the autumn. The only nature-related activity I liked was planting impatiens in our flower beds. Impatiens can only grow in shade and the oak trees provided a perfect environment for them. They bloomed thickly and didn’t need much attention. The three of us always participated in planting them.
But then there is what was happening underneath. Every day for at least ten years and probably more I drove to work and back, looking at bulldozers scraping away what was put in fields and meadows naturally, and it was all gone forever. That was the worst part and lots of times I would forcefully shove that particular fact down deep into my subconscious, as deep as I could go.
It sprang to the surface, once I made the first trip “upstate” after having gone through the tunnel. I had to own up to the fact that I loved the earth, that “weeds” weren’t what people said they were, that along with my neighbors at the end of our street I noticed with a sinking heart the overabundance of songbirds. Why did the birds break my heart? At the other end of our street there were no more trees left to shelter them.
I’ve written about this over and over and I know now that I’ll never stop thinking and writing about it. When your soul is touched that deeply you don’t forget.
lgmwriting 