I credit my grandma for my love of climbing. I suppose it was her apple trees that first took me up. Low branches provided an easy first step. Of course it was no problem then to bring my knee to my chin and hoist myself up. My bumper tennis shoes slid up the bark and after arriving on my first branch, one so easily reached by my mother’s long arms, it was still my proudest moment to hand her that beautiful green apple prize.
Each year I could go higher. Even higher than grandma’s basket on a stick that she used to pull down the apples on the tippy-top. And it was a thrill to say, “I’ve got it, Grandma,” — to show her that I could do it, I could go higher. To show her that even though she had rescued me so many times, from dark nights of sleep-overs, from the fear of grandpa’s snoring, from the dark closets of the upstairs bedrooms, from the unwanted covered dishes at the potluck, from the hidden aisles of Jerry’s Jack and Jill, and all the unknowns of Petermeier’s Funeral Home, I could climb higher.
I could fill the paper sacks with apples. I could write Ivy in magic marker on my mother’s and give to her her favorites, the tiny sour ones from the tree near between the electric fence and the road.
The ones who really love you will do that — help you reach higher. Maybe the only way to thank them is to keep climbing. And to help other’s do the same.
I smiled when climbing the rocks at the Joshua Tree National Park. Not because I was getting closer to them, but because they are still lifting me.
