002 - A Trip to the Nursery (1 - Brentwood)

The Last Apricot Tree Under the Mountain

On Saturday mornings, Dad never shared his list. You just didn’t know what was coming. It was always on a yellow piece of paper torn off one of his innumerable pads. He never followed the lines. A weird combination of cursive, printing and hieroglyphics. Each word got larger, each line got more tilted. When he ran out of room, a few things made it on the side spaces. We were never, ever going to get everything done. He was the only one who didn’t know.

Once we finished something, he would pull out his paper, draw a line through the task, and tuck it back in his blue overalls. Someday when he dies, while going through his things, I’ll find those yellow pieces of paper scrawled with his endless plans to win the day, and tuck them in a pocket closest to my heart.

One of my favorite errands was going to the nursery on the north side of town. In the 1970s, I cannot think of any place that even hinted at being a super store. Sears might have been the closest thing, but it was still nothing like the Targets, Walmarts and Home Depots of today. You went to the burger shop for a burger. You went to the sandwich shop for a sandwich. You went to the hardware store for a crescent wrench. You went to the barbershop for a haircut.

So, if you wanted to buy a shrub, or a tree, or some flower or vegetable starts, you went to the nursery. And I loved going to our nursery.

It had several distinguishing and memorable features.

The place, from just outside the door and all the way through, smelled weirdly perfect, the way a nursery should. I think it was the combination of rotting nutritious soil, damp air and fertilizer. I could feel myself growing taller and stronger. Maybe it was all of the oxygen being blasted into the air by the forest of plants. Who knows? I was too busy soaking it all in.

And soaking it in is exactly what I did. From a very young age, Dad would let us little kids run around free, in this, the first, and still the best maze I had ever encountered. Even if I had wanted to, I could not find my way out without a little help. I can still hear Dad trying to bring us to the front with his voice, but I was drawn deeper by each new treasure around the next corner or at the end of another dark, long corridor.

Green tunnels. Wet, rough cement. Small trowels and snips down low. Rakes and shovels high up and in symmetric rows. Flowers on racks. Trees in plastic and clay pots. Hoses. Dirt piles. Leaves of every shape and texture.

We were allowed to go and explore everywhere, except for the forbidden area in the very back behind the largest tree pots and over the fence with the large ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ sign. No matter which path I took through the maze, I would end up staring at that sign. To this day, I can feel my heart quicken as I recall the pull to wiggle through that gate to see what I was not supposed to see.

I have often wondered if this ‘little kid Eden’ sparked my middle school obsession with drawing complex mazes. I would start by creating several smaller mazes on a regular size piece of paper. Then I would build a maze connecting the smaller mazes, filling every inch of the paper. One day I just stopped in the middle of one of my most complex projects. Looking back, I think perhaps my newly arrived puberty was maze enough for one little boy. I didn’t need to build my own anymore.

Still, my thoughts return to the nursery often. Was it the proximity to the wonder of the earth? Some freedom? Some exploring? A mirage of danger wrapped in the certainty of safety? Someone would always come find me. But it was never my choice to leave.

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.