MY MOSTLY HAPPY LIFE: Autobiography of a Climbing Tree

Chapter 9 - The Birdcage, the Trowel, and the Moroccan Magic Box

Sam Swerling and his granddaughter were often in the park at the same time as Meg Fitzgerald and her mother, but their paths had never crossed. At least, not until that Friday morning. It was a school day, but it was also Esther's birthday, and she had begged her parents to let her celebrate in her own, special way.

"How?" They asked.

"I want to spend the day with Grandpa in the park."

And because Esther was such a good girl and rarely asked for anything, both parents agreed. It was late spring. The weather was dry and hot, and the sky was a cloudless forget-me not blue. Some of the colorful flowers that had populated the park in March and April were gone, but there were huge patches of iris, lupine, foxglove, and lilies, and the lilacs were in full bloom.

After Sam and his granddaughter arrived at the park, their first stop was to visit me. As usual, they settled upon the lowest branch on the north side of my trunk. But this time, they did not play the "What are they saying now" game. Esther's mother, Donna, had told Sam that Esther's school grades were somewhere south of acceptable.

"Please talk to her, Dad," Donna pleaded. "Esther will do anything you say."

So, Sam asked his granddaughter, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

And Esther had answered, "I want to be you, Grandpa."

The old man nodded ever so slightly and whispered under his breath, "That's what I was afraid of." Out loud, though, he said, "I understand from your beautiful mother, that as a student, you are exhibiting the intellectual prowess of moss growing on the wrong side of a tree."

Esther inhaled deeply. Then, as though expelling all of the worries of the world with a single sigh, she admitted, "I guess I'm pretty awful."

"Did you flunk any subjects?"

"Not actually flunk."

"Did you get any 'A's?"

She shook her head, but added, "My favorite teacher says that I'm an 'indifferent student,' but that I have a wonderful imagination."

Sam considered this for a moment and asked, "Is that a tangentially less offensive way of suggesting that you're lazy?"

Esther studied her nails. On each, she had pasted a decal of a tiny rocket ship.

"Well, Grandpa," she finally looked up, "I'm not lazy if you consider what I actually do. But I guess I am lazy if you ask what I'm supposed to be doing."

Sam said unsympathetically, "And what might that be?"

Esther grimaced, and then admitted, "Homework."

"What are you are doing instead of homework?"

Esther grinned. "I do what you do, Grandpa. I invent things."

But before he could ask the next logical question, which would have been, "What kinds of things do you invent?" their attention was drawn to a soft whimper of repressed sobs and the sad sight of a girl about the same age as Esther. She was stumbling along the path not far from where Sam and his granddaughter were perched upon my branch.

Sam put a finger to his lips.

"Shush," he whispered, and he slid to the ground. He motioned for Esther to do the same, and very quietly they trailed behind the weeping child into the depths of the park.

Meg Fitzgerald, for that is who the girl was, walked unsteadily, because tears impaired her vision and because she was carrying the awkward bulk of a small white birdcage containing a metal trowel and a Moroccan magic box. Despite her sobs and the circuitous route of the park's inner paths, she proceeded unerringly in the direction of the Children's Garden.