001 - First Memories (Section 1 - Brentwood)

The Last Apricot Tree Under the Mountain

My earliest memory. I am in trouble. Not a lot of trouble, but enough. I am small, with no sense of wanting to grow up. I am on the carpet in our tiny living room on Pippo Avenue in Brentwood, California. Someone is cleaning up pee on the carpet. It is mine. I know that. But I don’t remember standing up and pulling down my pants. I do remember explaining that it had to be our dachshund, Prince Hanz. When I am older, it is always told as a funny story. I don’t remember it being that funny at the time.

Very close to the same time, I am pulling on my rain boots. I am older, but not by much. It is a big day. My parents are going to let me go outside in the rain and stomp in the water in the street gutters. I feel like I wanted to do this all of the time, but we were almost always on our way somewhere. Today, it really is the destination, not the journey. I stomp and stomp until every inch of me is soaked from the splashes. I can still see the slow motion of my galoshes displacing the water as the edges climbed higher. Can I get the water wall above my head? I may have never been more carefree. Or happier.

Which is saying a lot. I have collected many happy moments.

I remember that I had a lisp. I got some speech therapy later. During this time, farmers often grew lettuce west of Pippo. I tried so hard to say lettuce. But the fact was that I could not hear my own lisp. Every time well-meaning adults would say ‘lettuce’ to me as they tried to teach me or coax a cure, I thought I was saying it back correctly. They just kept yelling the word at me louder, as if their skills would transfer if they found the right decibel.

Mom says I wanted to grow up to be a ‘lettuth’ picker, without any idea of who the migrant farm workers were (mostly from Mexico) and the hard reality of their lives. I don’t remember saying this, but I really love the story.

I do remember we planted trees in the front yard of the Pippo house. Eventually those trees grew all the way up, were cut down, and new ones were planted in front of someone little like I was. Now I can see that those trees have grown all the way up again. Growing all the way up even once eludes me.

I remember I threw a dart into my friend's thigh. I still can’t believe it stuck there.

I remember waiting for the bus.

I remember that we had an apricot tree in our backyard.

I remember that at the north end of Pippo Avenue was the great, dark and terrible walnut orchard of the mythical Mr. Pippo. I never saw him. I never met him. With apologies to his family, I still dream about him. The older kids said that if you snuck into his cool and shady orchard, he would know and come after you with a shotgun armed with rock salt shells. They wouldn’t kill you, but they would give you one hell of a memory.

My body has grown up. That orchard is long gone. So is that little apricot tree. Though we moved a short way out of town when I was ten, I still remain. I drive through that old neighborhood about once a week. It is not exactly on my way home. Except that it is home.

Editorial and Advance Reader Contributors: Mark Wallace, Alisha Price, Heather Bergevin of Barrow Editing, Mette Ivie, Bonnie Wach, Francoise Boden, Mark Berg, Mike Hammer and Kathy Toelkes. Special thanks to Bill Davis for a kick in the pants that only a friend from your old stomping grounds can give you. Mt. Diablo and Apricot Tree painting by the talented and local artist, Greg Hart.