The apple tree floated on the early summer breezes; it my sailboat, they the sea. And I was the captain of my little ship as I sailed the ocean of my seventh year. I became best friends with my books, and when my small world was too hurtful, pushed me away ... or crushed my spirit, I could go on journeys so far away, that only the buzzing of the apple tree bees could bring me back home.

I would solve unfathomable mysteries with Nancy Drew. I was her hands as she drove her convertible around to find clues. I was the young woman with a beautiful handbag sitting on the console, complete with my very own drivers license, my beautiful hair blowing in the wind.

I even traveled around with the Hardy Boys and read most of the Zane Grey books. I rode shotgun with the stagecoach drivers as they fought to keep the gold coins safe from bandits ... and was a ghost as I reveled at the courageous mother cougar in 'Yellow Eyes', as she fought to keep her cubs safe from the hunters. My heart broke when Old Yeller had to be shot. Real tears flowed too, when the beautiful red fern grew between the graves of a young boy's beloved Redbone hounds.

Later, Poe's raven taught me the dark side of the moon. H.P. Lovecraft left me dizzy with the creeps. But I was safe in the sun, surrounded by the sweet scent of the apple tree. I was safe and happy when I came back to be once more with the apple tree bees, and the songbirds who were the watchers of my soul. Delicious were ... are ... the days of my journeys.

These many moments in time were punctuated with sadness ... fear and uncertainty. But I always came back. To sit amongst the pink blossoms of Mama's apple trees. With the kittens my students, my little children ... and I read to them--taught them to climb up, and how to turn and come down the trunk of the trees. They curled up in my lap, tired. Trusting, happy.

Like I once was. And my father gave me an album, and the song told me to 'spread you tiny wings and fly away'. But my wings were broken. Before they had even grown. My spirit retreated into itself when the lambs were butchered. When the neighbor boy was smashed by a tractor tire. When the teachers would play favorites. When the most important person in the world to me, played favorites.

And girls just wanna have fun, they want to be loved. A fragile soul cannot be murdered, bloodied and forced. I hate the name Bob, and old gold sedans. I had wanted love, not sex. Women are from Venus, men are from Mars. Sad. And the wise old crows had tried to warn me, even then. Listen well, little one. Listen and learn. Go walk in the rain, and dance in the moonlight. Soak up the sun. Try. Try harder they said.

Is my darkness gone? The uncertainty and doubt? I want it to be. I love people. All people. Why do they hate? Where has the good gone? When did the mean and dishonest steal the whole world? I want my apple tree again. I want the branch to cradle me ... hold me close, so I will feel safe again. I want the kittens to need me. I want the old crows to squawk, and tell me tales of the sun. To warn me of danger. I want me. To be. Me.

Said the mother wren to her fledgling babe ... 'precarious is the wind, my love, it will bully and it will blow. But never let it lay you low. Fly away, and spread your wings. Fly into the rainbow and listen to the happy sing.'


When you are down, don't make a sound, I say to me, myself and I. Just go to the apple trees in the spring, and let your spirit sing. Soak up the sun, I say to the little girl in me. Sail away for just a while--and live. Try to believe in something good again. And I do. I will.

I'll smile. And live out loud beneath the sun. Just my books, the sun and kittens and me ... and the sugar-sweet buzzing of the apple tree bees.