The Avocado Tree

The avocado tree was firmly rooted in the center of Peggy’s back yard. Like Peggy, herself, it provided shelter for me in times of fear, despair, and confusion. While not a particularly athletic child, I climbed the tree with a sure-footed confidence that I lacked on the ground at twelve.

No one could climb the tree for me. I had to reach for the limb, pull myself to the next branch and place my foot in just the right position to hoist myself up up further up so that I became a part of the tree.

Like the Swiss Family Robinson, I imagined parts of the tree being different rooms in my house. I loved climbing that tree. Peggy allowed me the freedom to climb the tree without the overbearing worries of my mother. In fact, I don’t think Mother ever knew how much time I spent in the tree. It was my world.

Until I fell out.

It was a summer night. I was babysitting my two nephews and at twelve years of age, I had every kid in the neighborhood over. We were playing a game of some sort. I perched myself in the tree, when, showing off – I jumped to grab a lower limb intending to swing like Tarzan.
Instead, my hands slipped like the gymnast on the uneven bars, and I fell, slamming my arm on the ground below – breaking it.

My summer trips to the beach for bodysurfing ended.

And so did my climbing of trees.

Now I am fifty. It has been a very long time since I’ve gone out on a limb.
Perhaps it is time again to risk the fall.