When the Bough Breaks

It was the summer of 1976. The welcoming glow from the radiant sun warmed my body as I skipped through the sprinkler with my neighborhood friend, Stacy.

Even though I desperately begged my parents for a swimming pool, the sprinkler would have to do as reality once again hit me upside my head like a smack from a cast iron skillet. I realized my childhood dream was nothing more than a little girl’s invisible pipedream.

Back in the late 1950s, after the acres of fruit trees were removed by the City, the construction of our neighborhood homes began. We moved to this quaint tree-lined neighborhood in 1969 when you could play ball in the street and roller skate on the evenly paved sidewalks; never worrying about traffic in the street. Those were the days.

Various fruit trees remained in the neighborhood and our backyard was adorned with a magnificent pear tree. The bountiful tree was stunning when in bloom, heavy with luscious pears and picturesque in the winter. My family and a select handful of neighborhood kids reaped one of the plentiful tree’s rewards, which was my mother’s fresh mouthwatering pear cobbler topped with a scoop of cold vanilla ice cream.

This towering sun lover flowered in early spring; offering ripened pears late into the summer. Our majestic tree remained strong and stoic as my father faithfully pruned her every winter, ensuring a fruitful season every year.

But earlier that spring we noticed the blossoms revealed wilt as the colorful blossoms turned a color of dirty brown. My father thought it may be an unfortunate fruit tree disease, fire blight, delivering doubt to the future of our shady summer refuge, mom’s pear cobbler and the symbolism of strength where she stood.

The local arborist shared with us the unfortunate news; she couldn’t be saved and needed to be cut down. The following month our majestic tree was replaced with an empty hole.

The memory of our regal tree held a unique beauty of gratitude in my mind. Little did we know she was not done with bestowing on us our greatest treasure yet.

It was a warmer than usual day as Stacy and I hiked down to the flowing bubbling creek that ran below, only feet away from my backyard.

The frogs were actively hopping on this summery day as we gathered a few creek frogs, resting them inside our tattered beach buckets. Walking back up the creek’s path, I noticed my father standing next to the water spigot, shutting the water to the sprinkler and delivering his usual sermon to me that I release the frogs back into the creek by the end of the day. I can still hear his wise words that I wanted nothing to do with because these frogs were my friends.

“Those frogs have moms and dads. How would you feel if someone took you from us?”

His words wrung true but being an obstinate yet obedient child, I respectfully nodded to his nonsense, knowing in my head I would not be forced to remove my friends back to their home at that moment. But I did…later. Deep down I painfully knew he was right.

Stacy and I began to dig holes with hand shovels where the pear tree once grew. After we finished cultivating a couple holes, which would soon be frog swimming pools, I ran to the kitchen, peeled off a couple sheets of aluminum foil and grabbed the outside garden hose. We fitted the foil down within the holes, added the creek water along with some cold water from the hose.

The foil magnificently slowed the water drainage as the frogs frolicked and swam in their newfangled spas. Stacy and I spent the afternoon with our frog friends; fooling ourselves into believing the frogs were the happiest they had ever been. We continued to tell ourselves that our green friends did not miss their parents and we continued to watch them for hours.

Our lazy summer day had come to an end as dinnertime was fast approaching. We gathered our buckets and the frogs, when I noticed I seemed to have misplaced my mother’s small garden shovel. After begrudgingly releasing the frogs back to their habitat, Stacy and I searched for the shovel and realized we may have buried it down below one of our designer frog pools.

Having only one hand shovel left, I dug down deep where the pear tree once rooted when suddenly I hit some type of obstruction. My head immediately turned toward Stacy, detecting the curiosity and wonderment on her freckled face.

Without saying a word, Stacy frantically began to dig with her hands while I recklessly shoveled, throwing dirt in all directions; dirt clods flew at my childhood friend’s face and mine. During this juvenile moment of fascination we were oblivious to a bit of dirt on our faces. We were much too focused and determined at unearthing the mystery object to be concerned with frivolous delays.

I had been obsessed with discovering treasures my entire young life. My family and friends were accustomed to my fantasy world but this adventure felt different. I nearly fell off my unicorn when I realized there was a chance we had found a buried treasure. I gasped with excitement.

“Maybe it’s a pirate treasure.”

We giggled like the young school girls we were when we spotted a dirty silver handle, instantaneously grabbing the handle and pulling it from the hole. As we gasped and screamed in delight, my mother came running outside to see what all the commotion was about.

“What are you girls screaming about?”

She zoomed in on the rusty metal box as we brought it to the wet lawn; worms wiggled their way off the clotted dirt and onto the green grass.

Quickly opening the lid, we realized this was a safe of some sort. The next city over must have heard my screams of joy when I saw $100 bills, necklaces and rings adorned with sparkling diamonds and the deepest red rubies you ever saw.

Leaning over my shoulder, my mother spotted a crinkled piece of notepaper when she reached from behind me and grabbed it. There was an address scribbled on the paper which led us to the rightful owners. Without hesitation, my mother drove us to the address. As we knocked on the door, there was silence on the porch; intently listening to the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the front door.

A balding, stout old man with gray hairs poking from his ears opened the door. I held the tattered box in my arms, looking up at him, trying to convince myself I was doing the right thing.

“Does this belong to you Mister?”

He slowly removed the spectacles from atop his head and carefully placed them over his eyes.

“Where did you find this?”

Before I could answer, he continued.

“Our home was broken into many years ago and the thieves got away with our valuables.”

A tear ran down his wrinkled cheek and he didn’t bother to wipe it way.

In that moment I felt surprisingly pleased. He requested our address before we left his porch and I didn’t say much during that drive home.

Weeks passed and we received a generous check in the mail with a note attached that read, Finder’s Fee.

After the pear tree’s bough broke and its trunk was cut down, we broke ground on a swimming pool that following summer.

Memories of our majestic pear tree will always remain as childhood dreams do come true.

Being a true-crime writer for the news, I balance the chaos in my brain by writing children’s books. If you enjoyed what you read, find more stories here on Vocal or subscribe to my newsletter @ https://www.authorloriarmstrong.com