When I was little, I couldn't have told you if an Acacia was plant or animal, so it would have been hard for me to notice the conspicuous absence of the desert shade tree, with its umbrella of foliage. Yet Acacia was the name of this green little refuge for eager children, and tired parents. Acacia park was settled directly behind Acacia Elementary School, only a two foot cinder block wall and a skinny chain link fence separating the shallow rolling hills from the wide lawn of the school.
Trees dot the landscape now as they always have, if the grass is watered and mowed less frequently, the light bulbs in the lamp posts changed less often. Entropy is the nature of the universe, science proclaims. The trees, the sidewalks, and the hills are the same; the now raggedy grass pushing up the cotton headed weeds, the hopeful dandelions in spring. As a child, walking to school in the morning, going the long way through the park to meet my friends, or just to have some solitude, I would pluck those yellow dandelions and twirl them in my fingers, smell their faint sweet scent, touch their tiny petals until they hung limp in my hands only to be abandoned on the yard of the school before being called to line up for class.
The shadows cast across those hills by night, held only at bay by the street lamps, held little terror for me by my father's side. Small and skinny, I'd curl my body up on the strip of old carpet in the basket of the large family tricycle, my long golden hair whipping in the wind while my dad pedaled and coasted, sharing the load with our muscular and excitable German-Shepard mix, Lady. "Mush!" I'd cry, like an Eskimo sledding across the frozen tundra, watching her fluffy white husky tail flap back and forth as she pulled our enormous weight. We'd stop then on the wide sidewalk of the park, surrounding the coveted play ground. The great brown-painted posts of lumber, rods of steel, and shining slides transformed themselves for me into midieval castles, looming high above a moat of sand. My father's heart shed the weight of his day as a social worker as he watched my young face contort and light up with the joy of my imagining. "En gaurde, ye feind!" I'd cry to him, reaching the highest castle wall, brandishing my invisible rapier, and he was all too ready to comply as my invented villain, inventing plot twists and secret schemes to undermine me, but always succumbing to my victory. I was the hero. Daddy said heroes should win.
Trees dot the landscape now as they always have, if the grass is watered and mowed less frequently, the light bulbs in the lamp posts changed less often. Entropy is the nature of the universe, science proclaims. The trees, the sidewalks, and the hills are the same; the now raggedy grass pushing up the cotton headed weeds, the hopeful dandelions in spring. As a child, walking to school in the morning, going the long way through the park to meet my friends, or just to have some solitude, I would pluck those yellow dandelions and twirl them in my fingers, smell their faint sweet scent, touch their tiny petals until they hung limp in my hands only to be abandoned on the yard of the school before being called to line up for class.
The shadows cast across those hills by night, held only at bay by the street lamps, held little terror for me by my father's side. Small and skinny, I'd curl my body up on the strip of old carpet in the basket of the large family tricycle, my long golden hair whipping in the wind while my dad pedaled and coasted, sharing the load with our muscular and excitable German-Shepard mix, Lady. "Mush!" I'd cry, like an Eskimo sledding across the frozen tundra, watching her fluffy white husky tail flap back and forth as she pulled our enormous weight. We'd stop then on the wide sidewalk of the park, surrounding the coveted play ground. The great brown-painted posts of lumber, rods of steel, and shining slides transformed themselves for me into midieval castles, looming high above a moat of sand. My father's heart shed the weight of his day as a social worker as he watched my young face contort and light up with the joy of my imagining. "En gaurde, ye feind!" I'd cry to him, reaching the highest castle wall, brandishing my invisible rapier, and he was all too ready to comply as my invented villain, inventing plot twists and secret schemes to undermine me, but always succumbing to my victory. I was the hero. Daddy said heroes should win.
This is just beautiful writing. I am right there with you in the basket. I can't wait to read more. The acacia really gave way to a whole memory and opened the door to a strong piece of writing.
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