Today’s post is in honor of our granddaughter’s first birthday! From the time she was an infant, she’s loved trees! I would hold her at the door in their apartment to look out. The tree in their courtyard delighted me with its twisty branches and limbs for sitting on. And Aria fell in love with it. Every time we’d go to the door, I’d say, “There’s your tree!” As the first tender smiles began to appear, many came at the mention of “her tree.” And the photo, taken this past Christmas (2019), shows her wonder at our Christmas tree.
But now, let’s go back to childhood days. Three main types of trees stood tall on our property in Lewisberry, PA: locust trees with their long, brown seed pods, stately pines in a line, and four sugar maples whose leaves carpeted the yard and driveway with gold in autumn. I remember driving into the driveway and claiming it my own personal “yellow brick road” leading home.
As children, my brothers and I enjoyed playing house outside. We never tired of creating natural concoctions in our play dishes. The tiny seeds peeled from the inside of the locust trees’ pods became raisins in mud cookies and beans in our grass soup, sprinkled with sand-salt and dirt-pepper.
Not to be outdone for playtime, the pine trees served as natural batting cages for our endless games of whiffle baseball. Most times, we’d face away from the pines to hit because there was a field on the other side. The man who owned the field often planted his garden right beside our property line (he rotated his crops in field and garden.) He didn’t cotton to little kids running through his seedlings after their wayward whiffle ball. But the pines did fine for would-be-catchers-who-couldn’t-catch.
And the maples? Well, besides their amazing beauty, the leaves gave shade for family 
picnics and one outside beagle. And their whirlygigs? Anyone else remember calling the maple seeds that? I still love when those seeds come twirling down through the air, sometimes fifty or more at a time. And when they fell to the ground? Why, noses, of course! I can feel the stickiness of my fingers as we’d pry one after another of the gooey ends apart and apply them to our nose to stick straight out or up as a makeshift Pinocchio’s nose.
Then there was the climbing. We had one tree great for climbing in our childhood, and it wasn’t even ours. That same neighbor with his crops had an old apple tree that stood just off the back corner of our property on the edge of his field. He allowed us access to his field to climb that tree. I believe it was past its age of maximum production for apples, but it sure provided a harvest of fun times.
The trunk had grown quite large in circumference, abnormal for most apple trees I’ve seen. About seven feet up, a flat spot had been created amidst the larger limbs that continued up to its grand height. That level area, perfect for at least two kids to sit side by side, became a vehicle of varied sorts for imaginative youngsters, a picnic spot for hungry tweens, and a hiding place for angsty teens.
And I only fell out one time! But oh, what pain. I’d placed one foot on the trunk and the other foot onto the level spot, grabbed the two largest limbs on either side to heft my teenaged self up, felt my hands slip on the bark smoothed by years of similar climbs, and tumbled straight backwards onto my derrière. Physical pain and emotional embarrassment warred as I groaned, stood, and looked around warily, hoping no one had seen my “fall from grace.” That may have been my last attempt to climb that specific tree.
Finally, the last trees which played a huge part of the magic of my childhood … and still 
do today as a full-grown child … Christmas trees! Through our youngest days, we bought ours from a tree lot. Mom and Dad would wait until we were asleep on Christmas Eve to bring the tree inside, put it in its stand, haul it up on top of a platform, deck it with as many lights and balls and trinkets and tinsel as it could hold, top it with a gold and cream angel, and surround it with a Lionel train and Plasticville village. Christmas morning, we’d come downstairs when our parents said we could, and there it would be – our Christmas tree, a display of radiance and love.
You know, that’s what trees are to me … symbols of love. God created the trees for us – for food, for play, for beauty. My childhood days held hours of play with our family. Christmas trees glittered with ornaments collected as gifts given and received through many holidays. Yes, trees symbolize love to me. And I’m glad I live in a state filled with many varieties to enjoy and pass on the love of to our grandchildren.
What did or do you enjoy trees for – their beauty, their harvest of fruit or nuts, their open branches for treehouses or birds’ nests, or maybe their sturdy limbs for a swing? Which is your favorite tree? What tree played a part in your childhood? Please share your stories!
At Nanny’s, jars of 
kitchen led into the tiny, fenced-in backyard and out to the alley. At the sink, Nanny would set up her ringer washing machine which she single-handedly hauled up the steps from her basement, through the dining room, and into the kitchen to use every wash day. She had lots of those because she took in laundry for other people. I can still see her ironing board set up where the ringer washer had been (after she’d wrangled it back down to the basement). She would iron mountains of white starched shirts … and my aunt’s long hair, which tended to get wavy, something the 1960s didn’t allow. (Photo not of Nanny!)
Another similarity sat in the dining room—the table, set with its lace tablecloth and centerpiece. 
pick us up in our PJs, and carry us to the car. This time, though, my grandmother let me stay up later than my brothers and sit on the steps to watch the Miss America Pageant, something she watched every single year. I don’t remember who won, but I do recall the twinkle in her eye when she was later asked if we had gone to bed when told to.
another highway.
Ah, the creek … the pièce de résistance! This part of the scene delights kids and adults alike. The typical rocky bed, bubbling clear waters, and slippery mudpuppies provides entertainment for the kiddos. Their elders enjoy relaxing by its edge, entranced as usual by the rust-colored rocks sparkling in the sunlight, looking to be dusted with gold specks. The respite refreshes the vacationers and helps them get back on the road ready to finish the last leg of the journey.
these picnics into a reality is the rusty creek and the love of family. The unusual colors of the creek made it a favored spot for the yearly picnic on our trip to Potter County. And the family members who made up the entourage made the picnics a time of joy, a time to be remembered with love.
A few questions for you:
How recently have you meandered into a bookstore and checked out the magazine racks … and racks … and racks? Even with the number of magazine publishers closing, there remains a plethora of choices to fit any age, any interest. Women’s magazines full of recipes and homemaking tips. Men’s magazines filled with car engines and fishing lures. Kids’ magazines with puzzles and coloring pages. How can anyone decide on just one?
reativity, when it came to teaching our daughters about writing, I chose not to focus on reports—the dreaded book reports of elementary school and those nasty 10-pagers of secondary levels. I figured the skills necessary to write those scholarly pieces could come through a more fun and no-less-educational foray into the world of magazine-making.
habitats became word search puzzles. Pictures made from those old trace-and-color books became “Color Your Own Picture” pages.
e, art, and more.
ma, I want to make my own magazine and sell subscriptions to it!” And so we did … and Focus on Fun was born.
days with more learning, academic and life-skills, than any 10-page research paper would have brought her. And it was a whole lot more fun!
“Triassic, Jurassic, Cretaceous! Such difficult words, my gracious! They happened, you know, way back long ago, for these were the dinosaur ages!”
cassette into the car’s tape player to surprise the girls. Singing with different music helped pass the time. This one delighted the girls and their mama and would be played often, with lots of dinosaur stomping and roaring … and little girl giggles.
We found the length of each dinosaur … without the benefit of internet for all of you hurrying to google it. Holly’s came in at a whopping 75 feet, while “Cera” barely topped 30. Next, we cut one-foot lengths of colored yarn. Each time the girls read a book, they chose a colored strand and tied it to the last one they’d chosen, winding them into a raggedy ball. Of course, since “Cera’s” ball was completed sooner, “our Sarah” started adding to the bronto-ball to finish it.
world do you make a parasaurolophus’ long head protrusions stay in place?
I love this photo taken by our daughter Faith. First, I think the photo itself showcases her photography gifting. Second, I enjoy the walks we take in the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon, also called Pine Creek Gorge, where she took this photo. And finally, I love it because I love the whitetail deer!
Watching the spotlight or the headlights, depending on our seat in the car, we wait for glimpses of shining eyes in the spotlight or some critter crossing the road in front of us. I never lose the delight of a doe’s warm eyes if close enough to see them or of the white spots dotting the tiny fawns. I never tire of using the binoculars to see if the deer sports antlers to excite the hunters in the car. And I never forget the count … um, was that fifty-two or fifty-three … oh well, maybe I do.
bends in the road from Galeton, PA, toward camp never lessens. I inch forward on the seat, straining against the seatbelt, picturing the final turn. There it is! The farm where the owner lives and the barn where he used to milk his cows in days gone by. (I would watch the owner’s kids bring the cows from the pasture, across the creek, and down the lane to the barn, only to repeat it the next morning in reverse.) The lane, tucked between the two buildings, never changes, except from rutted and dusty in the hottest months to rutted and muddy from recent rain showers.
heaven—even if it’s only for a week.
Thunder echoed through the hollow, rattling the loose window pane in the cabin door. The afternoon’s thunderstorm had grown into a wailing, angry force, and with the darkness, it seemed to be trying to fight its way inside the cabin. Rain pounded the roof, wind howled and whipped the walls and windows. Lightning bolts streaked across the night sky, leaving eerie periods of illumination.
the earlier part of the day, change to something from a movie about whitewater rafting. Huge crashes, one after another, sounded like dynamite exploding, first up the hollow a ways, then closer, in front of the cabin in which we sat listening, shivering, wondering if the building would blow apart any second.
yesterday, nor of the years I’d spent wading its waters. During the night, what we mistook for thunder was huge boulders tossed by rising waters. Rocks, as large as monster truck tires, had been tossed like leaves across the water and deposited in another section of the creek hundreds of feet downstream. The power necessary to uproot these boulders from where they’d sat for who knows how long and tumble them like children’s building blocks to a new resting place, seemed unimaginable. We’d heard it, we saw the aftermath, but we couldn’t take it in. 
legaciesletloose 