“Orange Grove” painting by Tom Brown
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. Frieda and Alfred lived in a rambling California rancho amid what had once been a sprawling commercial orchard. But their ranch hands (sons), now strapping young men, had moved out. So Albert 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 bungalow 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 color (including octarine), and flowers full of flying critters who’d inspect me for nectar if I held still, which I seldom did.
Frieda, who I considered my Daymom, raised ducks, chickens, geese, rabbits, parakeets–anything that moved. Cats wandered where they chose, under the house, on the roof, in the trees, serving as volunteer ranch hands (or, rather, ranch paws), living off of the all-the-vermin-you-can-eat buffet. And so did I. Although I don’t recall trying mouse or rat. But I did carry a salt shaker in my pocket to sprinkle on fresh-picked tomatoes. Oranges? Nice. Lemons? Frieda’s lemonade was the best! 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 the 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, “My Dreaming Tree,” that loved me best. Its tart-honey fruit tasted and smelled like heaven. Even after I fell asleep daydreaming and tumbled from its branches, with the wind knocked out of me, and was certain I’d die, I forgave it. Frieda rubbed the life back into to my chest, and the next day I was back up in its branches, daydreaming. Interestingly, two decades later the memory of that unique fruit would have a profound effect on me.
More on Frieda’s Magical Garden next week.
To read the next My Real Memoir post, click here.
I was a tomboy and fell out of a tree in our local woods and winded myself. I also thought I was going to die and so did my friends! Did you keep in touch with Frieda?
Sadly, no. We moved away when I was seven. My aunt and uncle lived near them, and I did walk over, say hello, and reminisce with her once when I was older (Alfred had passed away by then). She was getting on, but it was a sweet moment.
Octarine? You’re a Pratchett fan?
Yup (I wondered if anyone would catch that ;>).
I never thought of trees as friends, but as you resurrected some old memories with your story, Mitch, I did have a few arborous friends during childhood: 1) the big boxelder with a wide-spread, 3-way branching–a perfect reading spot, 2) the weeping willow that provided shelter and shade from the summer sun–and 3) the huge climbing tree down the street at Kenny’s house. The branches were perfectly spaced so we could clamber (relatively safely) to great heights. To us ten-year olds it seemed on par with the Empire State Building. I know the boxelder and willow are gone; no doubt the climbing tree is as well. It had to be old back then; now it would be ancient!
So you’d only forgotten about your arborous friends. I’ll bet they never forgot about you. ;>) Wonderful memories, Nancy!
Thanks, Mitch!
Frieda’s magical garden sounds delightful!
It really was.
It’s so good to have a chidlhood memory like that to carry with us in adulthood.
Seriously the most precious story. I can’t wait for next week. You described all the characters in Frieda’s yard perfectly. Preciously told through the eyes of a three year old. Lisa
Thanks, Lisa!
Poor three-year-old Mitch! Had those grownups never heard of the five things you can’t make a child do? One is definitely go to sleep. (I can’t even make ME go to sleep sometimes.🙄) Glad you weren’t forced to stay in that situation.
While I have not seen the list of 5 things that can’t be forced, I suspect that being cheerful and being chummy are on it. Adults tried and failed many times when I was a kid.
I remember that you can’t make a child talk, eat, sleep, go to the bathroom … maybe “smile” is the other..?
Sounds plausible.
Awh! Enjoying this!
Delightful! all kids should have that kind of daycare
I love what your stories do to my heart, Mitch … your voice quietly whispers as I read and my own emotions and memories flood and speak loudly. THANK YOU for being a wonderful steward of this gift of story-telling! You blessed my soul today… wanting to head out and hug my “friends” 🙂
Aw, thank you, Heidi. You’ve made me feel hugged, I must say. Even if I’m not a tree.
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What a blessing that dishonorable discharge from preschool was in giving you the best childhood experience imaginable. We had a very small yard when I was a little girl, but there was a small apple orchard directly behind our property. The owner let the neighborhood kids climb his trees. Many happy adventures happened in that orchard. Thanks for writing this lovely story and conjuring up a memory of my own.
This post led me to read your 3 part series on CS Lewis and your spiritual journey. I found a lot to identify with and will be reading the CS Lewis books you referenced. Also love this post as you describe so well the magic of Frieda’s garden.
What a wonderful, vivid memory. Frieda’s Garden was a magical place indeed.
Thank you for telling us about Freida. I knew she would be just the person to understand boys. Your preschool years were outdoors, climbing trees, and in Freida’s magical garden. I wish every preschooler could have that experience.
While my preschool teacher was not like a drill-sergeant, she was explicitly (and quite smugly) confident that adults knew when kids were sleepy before the kids themselves noticed. Thus began my life-long distrust of authority figures. But I honestly can’t remember whether I dozed off or just spent the obligatory nap time fidgeting. 🙄
;>)
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I thoroughly enjoy reading your childhood stories.
Delighted to hear that, Veena.
Hi, Mitch–
I stopped by to welcome you to annieasksyou and to thank you for your support. But I immediately became caught up in Frieda’s Garden and your other flights of imagination. So now I’m signed on here as well. Looking forward to further Mitch insights.
Cheers,
Annie
Great. I look forward to getting caught up in still more of each others’ writing, Annie.
I want octarine squash!!
Hard to find these days (on this planet, anyway).
I know, and I haven’t found out how to get to Discworld!
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I’ve just “met” John Speirs of Gracie Press, who sounds like an adult version of you as a little kid. He’s written a couple of “modestly illustrated” stories about, um, his delightful chicken friends. Soon my 4-year-old granddaughter will be able to appreciate them.
Ah, yes, John is delightful, as are his stories and illustrations!
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