Roots
The other day my husband and I took a walk together. We wandered up the road to the local nature sanctuary and strolled the trails through old farmland and woods. It was a breezy, chilly day but comfortable for the season and it was nice to just enjoy the quiet together. This is a place that I hold dear. I have been visiting it since I was a little girl of 8. One winter day my Dad and I went for a walk, exploring our new neighborhood, and we came across the sanctuary. I vividly recall walking through a snow-covered field and all of a sudden slipping on ice. Unbeknownst to us, there was a frozen pond beneath the snow. I think that day stays with me because it is my first memory of the two of us doing something alone together – exploring and laughing. Now 35 years later I’m walking the familiar trails with the other most important man in my life and I still feel the wonderment of an 8-year-old.
Our walk led us through an exploration of our surroundings. Our journey started at my favorite pond and ended up in the woods near the creek. We spent the time noticing both the grand views and the little details like milkweed pods and lichen patterns. Leisurely we strolled, stopping to take photos of anything interesting. There is art in nature if you take the time to see what is in front of you. Our final destination is what I consider a magical place. It is a pine grove with a creek running alongside it. The ground is made soft by a blanket of needles and the air smells better than anything else. Even the light is different and the place feels both haunting and serene at the same time. On a winter’s day, the only sounds you hear are rushing water, rustling leaves, and creaking trees. This place is forever changing. Old growth has fallen and new growth is struggling to take root. The area shows the scars of storms past. The banks of the creek are eroded and the trail is blocked by fallen pines. Some of these trees are completely uprooted; their tangled systems are exposed to the air. Here they will lay, fallen giants, transformed in their purpose but no less significant. Being able to see what is normally below– tiny hairs, rootlets, and the large main roots – gives one pause for, without the roots to anchor the tree and nourish it, the tree fails to thrive and dies.
I think about my roots and how they anchor me to the past and nourish me through the present. How with each passing year they grow along with my wisdom. How they form my foundation and add to my strength. Fortunately, they do not force me to remain in one place and I can take them with me wherever I may go. My roots are my own but they are intertwined with those of my family members and friends. Collectively we are entangled but moving about this Earth at the speed of our own lives. Just like a tree, what is below the surface is a mystery until it is exposed.
My roots run deep and wide. My parents and the generations before provided an environment rich in love and experience. I know I am fortunate and this is why I have been able to branch out and make my own choices. I must take a moment though to reflect upon all my life has had to offer - the good and bad, the joyful and heartbreaking, the comforting and the crazy. But for this pondering, I choose to think back to my earliest and happiest memories only. Memories of visiting my paternal grandparents, boating on the Hudson River, and riding horses. Perhaps I cling to these particular memories because they existed before any painful ones occurred. These are just a few of the positive experiences that have anchored me and kept me strong even during the less idyllic times.
I grew up in the same small one-square-mile town in which my parents spent their youth. I could walk to my grandparents’ house and visit not only with them but with my Aunt, Uncle, and cousins. It was a house full of love – love, in the simplest and purest of forms.
A typical visit would go something like this: I walk in the back door and grandma is standing at the counter. She is a small Italian woman dressed in a house coat and big framed glasses. We sit at the table and chit-chat while enjoying a cup of tea and a buttered roll with jelly. In the living room is grandpa. He’s taking his afternoon nap on the couch. The cigar is still in his mouth and the glowing end of it is coming dangerously close to the tip of his impressive proboscis. When he wakes up he will come into the kitchen and say, “Hi ya, doll face”. Dolls face is the name he called all his granddaughters. Two decades have passed since grandma made me a buttered roll with jelly but I still go to the house. Now I visit my aunt and uncle and my children get to sit and talk with their surrogate grandparents. The kitchen has been renovated and updated but it is still as welcoming as ever. I love being in the home that is now seeing a third generation grow up.
My father was the second of eight children. His family did not live an extravagant lifestyle by any means but he had dreams. One of my father’s passions was boating and he indulged it when he was able to afford it. There are photos and films of him with his boats but I only experienced one of them. The Bayhead was his pride and joy. 36 feet of craftsmanship. I have so many happy memories of life on the Hudson River and those weekends spent on the boat meld into one as I flashback.
We are boating on the Hudson. Dad is at the helm. Mom is his second. The siblings, all various ages, mulling about the deck and below in the cabin or perched upon the bow enjoying the wind and the waves. It is a simpler time without the distraction of phones and handheld games. We entertain ourselves with checkers and cards, swimming and rowing, and playing with rubber snakes and live fiddler crabs. Most of all we have laughter and freedom. We belong to a club and our boat is just one part of a larger floating community. When moored I happily hop over to the neighboring boat to try my hand at Uno with Buddy – the living image of Poop Deck Pappy – with his white beard and anchor tattoos. My six-year-old self would school him and return with a handful of pennies. It has been decades since I’ve been out boating on the Hudson but the river runs through my veins. Boating is not currently part of my life but it is part of me and I can feel the pull of attraction every time I am near the water.
Like the river, horses are in my blood. The love of horses was planted in my mother at a young age but it was forced to lay dormant until she was a mother of 6 and well into her 30s. At the age of 36, she started to pursue her dream of becoming an equestrian. The roots quickly took hold and a love of horses was consistently nourished. I was 3 years old when my mother took her first riding lesson at Overpeck County Park Equestrian Center. I would go and watch her ride and I knew that I would be a rider one day as well. During that time children had to be at least 8 years old to take riding lessons and I counted down the years as I watched my mother and two of my siblings improve and compete. I observed everything and devoured information. I knew every horse in the barn and everyone who took care of them. It didn’t take long until I was the one zooming around the ring on a little white pony named Bea. My mother’s equine obsession only grew the more she rode and mine was no less contained. Mom decided that she needed a country home so she could have a horse of her own or pay out big bucks to board at the local stable. Dad got her that country home and two years later the first horse, Ute, came onto the property. I’m still here raising my family on “the farm” and although Ute is gone the lessons I learned from him are still with me and guide me as I work with the current horses.
When a seed falls from a parent tree there is a possibility that it will germinate and grow into a new tree. If the conditions are just right the seed will germinate and put forth its first roots. They anchor the seedling in place and make sure the growing plant gets the water it needs to continue growing. That’s how I see my roots. My parents planted seeds in their children and provided just the perfect conditions for them to grow. For me, the seeds that rooted the deepest were the seeds of love for family, nature, and animals but most importantly they rooted in me a deep sense of self. However, once my roots took hold it was up to me to continue flourishing. If their examples illustrate anything it’s that we select which parts of ourselves we nurture and we decide to continue to develop into our best selves no matter our stage of life.
My Dad in 1980 something during one of our many walks to Moonbeams. I'm so grateful for the decades of walks we had together.
