Contemplations

I was eight years old and on my way to climb the neighbor’s cherry tree. The cherries were big, yellow and red and sweet as candy. I had my foot on the first branch. “You can’t climb up there,” the neighbor said, an old lady probably born around 1910. Confused I stopped, my brother and I had asked permission to pick from her tree and she had said   “yes”. “Why not?” “Because you are a girl. Come down from there!” I stared in disbelief. Was she serious?   She was, she even made my father tell me to come down and I was called a word I didn’t know. “Obstinate” was the word and I am not sure my father knew what it meant either. I was deeply hurt and humiliated when I had to stand on the ground and watch my brother climb around in the tree.   With a mother who refused to see her womanhood as a barrier, I carried a strong sense that I could do anything boys could do. I could do anything my brother did. I am not afraid of mice or spiders.   I love t...

If I was able I would have made a multisensory presentation of all the wonderful things we experienced in Sweden for the last three weeks. Because I wish that you also could smell the pine needles in the forest warmed from the sun, feel the smooth and slick lake water against your skin, taste the tart lingonberries and hold the tiny frog’s cold body in your hand.   And hear the wind in the old maples at the cemetery and the gravel under our shoes. See my mother’s hand rest on my son’s head for a moment longer before she had to leave. Hear the tiny voices call out in joy as they run down the path. But I can’t do magic, only write and take pictures.  So here are the top eight moments of the trip. One not more valuable than the other.   All rich and full and precious.   1.        First day we woke up to clear skies and a fresh, cool summer breeze.   Nothing cures jetlag as well as exercise so we went out to re-expl...

As many days before we stopped at the local deli and got my son a bagel and a juice on the way home from pre-school. In front of us in the line this time stood two young men; they looked like they were in their early twenties. One of them was black and spoke with a heavy Caribbean accent. The other one was Hispanic and spoke regular New York English. When it was time to pay; the young man with the Caribbean accent came up short. The sandwich was 8.60 and he only had eight dollars. “I thought it was 7.85,” he said confused. The lady behind the counter shook her head. “8.60 with taxes.” I looked over at his friend; I had to bite my tongue to not blurt out. “Don’t you have any change?   I remember when I first came here as an immigrant and I was always confused by the fact that taxes are not included in the price. I don’t know how many times I felt like a fool when I didn’t have enough money. “I can come back tomorrow with the sixty cents,” he said to the lad...