Peaches, Pears, and an Apple

Peaches, Pears, and an Apple Tree

(Dedication - For Madeline and Christian)

Prologue

Everybody has a soundtrack to their life. Songs are written to inspire, entertain, and heal. They tell a story, which inevitably brings forth a flood of memories, good and bad. The songs in this book are my soundtrack. I invite you to join in and sing along or just listen.

Don’t Forget the Honey Bees

It’s difficult to recall all the memories of my childhood, but my first real memory was when I was four. I remember sitting in the back bed of my mother’s VW van taking turns feeding from my mother’s breast along with her boyfriend, Kayle. At the time, I didn’t think this was odd as this had been a normal part of my life. Whenever I was hungry, I would approach my mom, lift her shirt and get my milk. I recall Kayle telling me that this milk was like nectar, full of health and goodness, which is why he wanted me to share. I even remember him asking me if I thought that not sharing was bad since everyone needed goodness. I shrugged and went along with it because my mother didn’t seem to mind. She was always smoking a sweet smelling cigarette, and it invariably made her happy.

So this day I was sitting back on the bed having milk from my mom from one side while Kayle was suckling from the other. My mother was lying back on the bed and rubbing both our heads. Kayle sat up and watched me finish, then smiled and asked me if I knew what lovemaking was. I again shrugged my shoulders. He peered over at my mom and smiled at her. He then looked back at me again and asked me if I knew that sweet milk also came from a man as well, then pointed between his legs. I looked at him blankly and sat back against the pillows that lined the back side of the van.

Kayle and my mother did what they described as lovemaking in the back of that van as they made me watch and explain all the things that happened. They told me after it was a life education. All I really remember is that I was uncomfortable and wanted to hide under the blankets. I didn’t want any more education. They both got up afterward and went outside to meet with the others who camped where we were. I peered out of the curtains to watch them adjust their clothes and approach the other people who gathered by the creek we parked beside.

Some people were playing instruments; others were bathing and washing clothes in the creek. There were two older women who had gathered food from everyone and were making a meal for everyone to share. My mother sat down behind Kayle on the grass and started to braid his long hair and put flowers in it. The flowers grew within her reach, so she had picked them and secured them from the top of his braid to the bottom. I thought it looked silly because he was a man and most men didn’t have flowers in their hair.

I guess I had fallen asleep because my mom was gently rocking me back and forth on the bed to wake me up. She said our meal was ready and I was to come out and enjoy the late California sun. Whenever I was feeling funny or uneasy about the things I had seen or the places we’d been, she would make me feel better by singing, “Peaches, Pears, and an Apple Tree.” As she said “Peaches,” she would cover my eyes with her soft hands and then kiss my forehead. As she said “Pears,” she would cover my ears and kiss me again on the forehead. As she said, “Apple Tree,” she would take my hands and extend my arms out on either side of me, then kiss my forehead again. But when she sang, “Don’t Forget the Honey Bees!” she would tickle down both my arms to my armpits. I was so ticklish that I would laugh uncontrollably until I yelled “NO MORE BEES!” Then we would both laugh, and I would feel better.

This time, as she did this, I didn’t know Kayle was watching from the door of the van. He laughed with us and wanted to join in. So he copied my mom and said, “Peaches” and covered my eyes with his hand and kissed my forehead. Then he said, “Pears” and covered my ears and kissed my forehead. He then said, “And an Apple Tree” and took my hands to extend my arms out beside me on either side. Then she kissed my forehead just like my mom did. He laughed. “Don’t Forget the Honey Bees!” and tickled my arms up to my armpits. I was laughing so hard that I could barely talk, but I did manage to yell, “No More Bees!” but he didn’t stop tickling. I started to cry because it began to hurt, and I panicked because I thought I couldn’t breathe.

My mom grabbed his hands and pulled them away smiling. “I think she’s had enough bees,” she said sweetly to Kayle and ruffled his hair. He finished laughing and looked down at me. I was still crying. His smile turned to a frown as he realized the blanket under us was wet because I peed. He stuck his hand between my legs to see if my underwear was wet, then brought his hand up to his nose and sniffed it. “She wet herself!” he yelled at my mom. “All over our bed!” he yelled again. He instantly grabbed me and turned me over and spanked my wet bum twice really hard, then yanked off my underwear.

My mom sat back and tried to discuss the situation in what seemed like a calm daze as he grabbed my arm and pulled me off the bed. Tears were rolling off my cheeks, and I stood there in front of my mom and Kayle, who was rummaging through the cupboards for rope. He tied my dress up on my waist, so my whole bum was showing. He grabbed some paper and wrote something on it and pinned it to the front of my dress. He then grabbed my arm again and dragged me outside and made me stand with my naked bum in front of the van facing the others.

My mom came out of the van to see what Kayle was doing with me, and as she began to speak, Kayle went to her and whispered something in her ear. They both nodded at each other. The other kids started to laugh, and the adults just looked away as if they didn’t see anything. My mom came toward me and wiped away my tears. She took my chin and raised my head so I could see her face, but all I saw were sunrays bouncing off her chin. She said that Kayle was taking care of us and we had to live by his rules for now. She said that this was a lesson I had to learn, some more life education I needed. She said that I would go without a meal that night and stand there and be brave. She then patted my head and turned around, and I watched her join the group ignoring the kids who had now gathered and were laughing at me still.

I heard one of the younger kids say, “What does her sign say?” An older boy giggled and said, “Her sign says she can’t wear underwear because she pees in them!” I stood out there until the sun went down. All of the other children grew tired of laughing at me and ran off to play in the water. Finally, my mom approached me after dinner and asked if I wanted to join them at the fire pit. I nodded shyly. She untied the rope, and my dress fell to my knees. She took my hand and led me to the fire. She sat me on her lap, and I snuggled up to her, hiding my face in her blouse. I fell asleep to all the others singing song after song in celebration of the memories of Woodstock four years earlier. I wasn’t sure what Woodstock was, but I knew there was music there. I had heard my mother on a few occasions make reference to my father, who apparently was a musician at Woodstock. I never knew him. We rarely talked about him. My mother always told me I was a love child. She said my father didn’t even know about me but that she was sure he loved me very much because he understood the ways of Mother Earth and all she offered to all of us.

I woke up the next morning alone in the van. The sun was trying to peek into the van through the curtains and macramé window hangings. I used to stare at the macramé owl forever. It had a piece of driftwood that the claws were attached to, and the eyes were made of old buttons. My mother made them and sold them at markets. She said that a macramé owl was how she met my father. He bought one from her exactly like the one hanging in our window. So I would sit and stare at this masterpiece wondering if my father ever looked at his owl and thought of my mother or me. I would dream that he would ride up in a rainbow unicorn and punch Kayle in the face and take us away to the clouds, way above the blue sky. There we would find an island where we would live and make sandcastles and pick apples: a place where we would smile and be happy all the time, a place where we would feed our unicorn marshmallows and brush his rainbow fur. In this place, there would be no mention of honey bees. I thought if I concentrated on that macramé owl as much as I could that somehow, someday my father would find me and save me.