Aunt Tillie's Tree

Not far from my parent’s apartment in the Bronx, my Uncle Max and Aunt Tillie had a small country home in Stelton, NJ, a place that my parents took us as a retreat from the bustling city life. It was a paradise with gardens, lawns and lots of trees. The fresh air wasn’t the only reason we visited. My aunt’s cooking from her garden was perhaps the best ever. My favorite treat was her berry jams and homemade pies.

The old-fashioned well pump and swing were perhaps my favorite place to play in the backyard. But there was also one particular tree that became a jungle gym for my brother and me. Robert was six years older and much more able to climb the interweaving branches. I don’t remember what kind of tree it was, but the hornet’s nest called it home way up near the top.

Being only five, I eventually I got the hang of it and was climbing as high as he could. Fortunately, the hornets never bothered us because we never bothered them. Somehow that tree became our home and an adventure for a child’s imagination. We could you see all the other homes and yards from this vantage point. We could become sailors looking out for Pirates or great giraffes or floating clouds hovering way above the grass below.

At the end of the weekend, when it was almost time to leave, I usually gave my parents the slip. Just as they were ready to go back home, they discovered I was missing. Immediately, they had everyone searching high and low, praying I hadn’t fallen into a well or went too far and got lost. But all the while, I watched. I was perched way up high among the branches, hidden from view. After all, this was my retreat and a place that was just as much a home as anything else I knew.

By the way, that’s my brother in the tree. He’s gone now, but not from my memory. Sometimes I can still hear the wind through the leaves, and we are smiling at each other.
—Peter Scheer