“Orange Grove” painting by Tom Brown

My Real Memoir: Frieda’s Magical Garden

At the Ripe Old Age of Three…

I began spending my days in a magical place. As previously stated, Mom and Dad were both working, and I’d been dishonorably discharged from preschool for “conduct unbecoming a three-year-old.” So Mom had no choice but to place me with someone far more laissez-faire than my former drill-sergeant preschool teacher (“It’s nap time, mister, and when I say, ‘Sleep!’ you don’t ask, ‘What if I’m not sleepy?’ you say, ‘M’am, yes, M’am!’”)

Enter Frieda. She and her husband Alfred lived in a rambling California rancho amid what had once been a sprawling orange grove. But their ranch hands (a.k.a. sons) had since moved out. And so Alfred was gradually selling off the property to developers, who were in turn reseeding the landscape with tract homes. “Three Models to Choose From: Pick A, B, or C (with C you get Egg Roll)!” This included our little suburban dream-box at the other end of the block.

But the rancho still encompassed quite a few acres. It was dense with citrus and other kinds of trees. In addition, Frieda grew tomatoes, onions, pumpkins, squashes in every known and unknown color (griffin, ochre, octarine). There were flowers full of flying critters who would inspect me for nectar whenever I stood still. Which I seldom did.

Frieda Was My Daymom

And not just mine. She also nannied ducks, chickens, geese, rabbits, parakeets–pretty much anything that moved. Cats wandered where they chose. Under the house, on the roof, in the trees. They served as volunteer ranch hands (or, rather, paws), living off the all-the-vermin-you-can-eat buffet.

And so did I. No, I never tried mouse or rat, but I did carry a salt shaker to sprinkle on fresh-picked tomatoes. Caught oranges as they fell, too sugar-heavy to hold on anymore. And decided God created lemons just so Frieda could make me lemonade. I quickly learned to climb, and would lie in the branches of fig trees for hours, munching their sweet little seeds and making up stories about Frieda’s Magical Garden.

My Earliest Friends Were Trees and Animals

I loved them, and they loved me back. Well, most of them did. There was one particular goose named Queenie who took her name a bit too seriously. She’d peck me mercilessly any time I failed to show proper respect as one of her subjects. Frieda taught me to chant, “Pretty goose, pretty goose,” until Queenie finally harumphed and waddled away.

There was one particular tree I called my Dreaming Tree, and it loved me the best. It was the only one of its kind. Its tart-honey fruit tasted and smelled like heaven. It was there every day of the year, never shedding its silver-green leaves, always waiting to hold me in its arms. Once, I fell asleep daydreaming and tumbled from its branches. I had the wind knocked out of me, and was certain I would die. Still, I forgave it. Frieda rubbed the life back into my chest, and the next day I was back in its branches, daydreaming once again.

I never saw another tree like it. But two decades later, the memory of its unique fruit would have a profound effect on me.