Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – By P.S. Gifford

June 28, 2006

Today we welcome P.S. Gifford as our newest writer # 338, to our fold.  Please welcome Paul in the usual Storytime fashion and encourage his writing as well.

The Tree Of Hope

By P.S. Gifford

psgifford@earthlink.net

   I shall never forget that particular Friday afternoon in April 1976. I was just a tender and impressionable eleven years old that was my final year at Whitecrest primary school. It is an enchanted age being eleven, just beginning the haphazard evolution into adulthood but yet still containing enough innocence and make-believe that is so sacred to childhoods.

  Our middle class neighborhood, Great Barr, underwent a major boom in the mid 1960’s, resulting in scores of new homes being built.  These homes attracted many young parents and those who were planning children to move on in. The result of all this was that in a school of about two-hundred, a hefty sixty of us were at that same tender age as myself. We were equally divided with two teachers- Mr. Right’s and Mr. Powel’s. The latter being my teacher.

  At this point in my life, family consisted of merely me and my father as my older siblings had left home to venture on bravely into the maddening world and my mother having left her marriage a few years earlier. This had made me self-reliant; I was a very capable eleven-year-old boy.

  On this particular day, it was going to be a special day. As today was the day the trees arrived. It had been decided by the powers that be that the outside path from the curb to the actual school building needed a little pizzazz. Trees, it was unanimously decided upon were the answer. Each class was going to get two. This idea totally engaged my young imagination. I have always had a soft spot for trees, having spent many a day in the local wood simply sitting on a grassy knoll admiring the charm of nature.

  The teachers concluded that a drawing would be the only fair way to decide who would plant the tress within our class, one girl and one boy. I remember the curious excitement I felt as I nervously wrote my name on that small square piece of yellow paper, my heart was actually racing. I vividly recall my teacher smiling at me, watching my every move; I was definitely the most excited child in his classroom.

  All of the names were put into two hats-one for the girls and one for the boys. It was ten o clock on that glorious Friday Spring morning and the sun was starting to idly warm the green grass that surrounded the building, gradually removing the dew with delicate precision from each blade. I can recall with amazing clarity the birds, singing and chuckling as they gaily set about their daily tasks.

 And I remember the teacher reaching into the hat-girls first.

“Julie Whitehouse” Mr. Powell announced to a few mumbled congratulations.

“And now for the boys name…” With that he winked at me, he actually winked. His hand delved into the hat as I held my breath. A few seconds later Mr. Powel was unfolding a yellow piece of paper.

“The boy tree planter is…”

He paused for several agonizing moments seemingly relishing the tension he was creating and I felt myself turning pale as my young heart thumped in hopefulness.

“Paul Gifford!” He then jubilantly proclaimed beaming at me.

I felt like jumping up and cheering, running around the classroom in a victory lap.  I wanted to leap up and down waving my arms about with wild unleashed abandon, however I did not do any of theses things, I simply said.

“Thank you.”

We then were informed to form two lines at the door of the class. At the head of the girl’s line stood Julie, and I was proudly at the front of the boys. I was radiant with satisfaction and this shy, insecure eleven year old boy was suddenly six-feet tall and overflowing with confidence.

 We marched in that orderly fashion, that only English school kids can, down the hallway and out into the morning radiance. The sun appeared to be actually smiling at me so I politely smiled back. It could not have been a more picturesque day, it was simply perfect. I eagerly breathed in the morning air my senses relishing in the sweet fragrance.

  As we arrived at the assigned place I noticed that several classes had already completed their task as several slender delicate trees, about two to three foot tall had already been neatly planted. It was now our turn, I saw a hole had been dug in the appropriate place. I picked up my prize terrified that the shaking tree within my grasp would belie my fa?ade of confidence and with my classmates seemingly scrutinizing my every move I tenderly placed it within the fertile soil. I then picked up a well worn small wooden handed shovel and slowly and meticulously returned the soil. Within a few more moments my noble task was completed. I took a few steps back, as did my female counterpart Julie, and we examined our work. Then we simply returned back to the classroom, back to our English and math classes and continued on as normal. Yet on that very special of days I had accomplished something sublimely gratifying -I had planted a tree!!

  It was just before four o’ clock and going home time when I had a question for Mr. Powel. I dutifully raised my hand, and was told to come forward to the desk. I can’t recall the mundane question that I had asked but as I stood there chatting to my favorite teacher I could not help the compulsion to sneak a peak at the yellow piece of paper still sitting on the desk. As I read the name I gained an insight into the teacher’s perception of me.

“Mark Gibbons”.

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  Over the next thirty years my life took me in various directions, some wondrous and amazing, others full of sadness .When I was seventeen my father disillusioned with the bleak unemployment that was rampant in 1970’s Britain accepted a job in California. With reluctance of leaving my homeland we packed our belongings and said goodbye…Goodbye to the house I was born in, goodbye to the friends I had grown up with, goodbye to all the things I was familiar with and also I said a tearful goodbye to my tree. It had been five years now since I had planted it and just as I was it was starting to flourish; its limbs were strengthening and growing. It was strong, vibrant and healthy yet I wondered how many winters it was going to endure and I quietly prayed to myself that it would be strong enough to survive.

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 Now I am forty years old I have still never forgotten my tree. I have often made it back to England over the years and I always made a point to go and visit it. I have watched it progressively grow and strengthen as the years have passed and I have shared with it my deepest fears, explained my heartfelt sadness and reveled in my joys. My tree seemed to have become all wise, all known always loyal and constantly ready to lend a patient ear.

 A few weeks ago I was fortunate enough to once again find myself back in Great Barr along with my fantastic wife Sarah and my son, Jonathan who is eleven.

  It was on our second night there that I told Jonathan that we were going to go for a hearty walk down his dad’s memory lane. My wife was tired and cared to simply relax in a long hot bath. Jonathan and I slipped our jackets on and set out into the early evening. We talked as we walked and then we talked some more. I find it hard to comprehend that I have an eleven year old son. Wasn’t it only a few short yesterdays ago that I was only just his age?

As we were on our amble we were greeted enthusiastically by a group of children.

“What school do you go to?” The bravest of the bunch cried out to my son.

  He was shy, but he explained that he went to school in California. This created a buzz amongst the eleven-year-old kids playing on the street. Within a few moments, we seemed to be surrounded by about a dozen fresh young innocent faces-all eagerly trying to figure out whom this “new kid is”.

I explained that I had gone to Whitecrest and was visiting the place of my birth sharing that I had left that school back in 1976. Their eyes glazed over as I spoke.

“Wow you are old” a few of them mused.

It turned out that not only did those kids attend Whitecrest, so did many of their parents, acorns typically falling very close to the tree in England.

We continued our walk, after Jonathan had eagerly shook and high fived a dozen new friends hands and as we jaunted on down a hill we came to a building.

“What’s this place?” Jonathan asked his young mind filled with curiosity.

“This is where I attended school” I softly replied.

We walked a little quicker and in a very few moments arrived at an extraordinary sight. In front of us, towering 60 feet high stood a remarkable tree. It seemed strong and proud as it stood there, and I swear it seemed to acknowledge me somehow, stretching itself even taller still.

Jonathan looked up at my face, and sees a tear in his old man’s eye.

“It’s a beautiful tree dad-Is it special to you?”

As a tear started to slowly creep down my cheek I replied.

“Yes son, it is very special to me indeed.”

P.S. Gifford was born on April 28th 1965 in Birmingham, England. He from a remarkably early age discovered he was completely fascinated with the written word. By the age of nine he was devouring several books a week, and had more importantly begun to write.

In the early 1980’s he and his father relocated to the California coast, which he has cheerfully called home ever since.

While in college, Paul wrote a few stories, but as he got older alas writing was relegated onto his hectic life’s “back burner” and he barely wrote a word of fiction for over fifteen years. However, in 2004 all this was about to abruptly and delightfully change, as that was the year when he realized that despite a serene contented existence an important aspect in his life was missing: the written word. So, once more he began churning out in abundance short stories. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Since then he has written well over one hundred short stories and had numerous published.

P.S. Gifford lives in Lake Forest, California, he is married, has a son, two dogs, a rabbit and an endless dream...

His email is psgifford@earthlink.net