Roots are funny things

At my final naturalization interview I was asked about my feelings for both the US and Switzerland. In my analogy I said if I were a plant the roots nearest the plant would always be New England Yankee. However I had been transplanted to Switzerland and put down longer roots. If the original roots were cut off, the plant would die, but the new roots had gone so deep and the plant had grown so much, that the original roots were no longer able to sustain the plant.

Recently I’ve reconnected with my roots in a series of encounters with people whose faces have morphed into new faces that were sometimes recognizable, sometimes not. Their experiences have written on those faces, as on mine. Life has been kind to us, overall, but none have escaped without some pain that have made us stronger and grateful for what we have.

Sunday evening, I found myself on a stone terrace with other friends, younger friends. Had not a man poked his head into my office in October 1971 where I worked in a job that I was not qualified for and not successful at and asked if the rumour were true that I had coffee available I would not have been with this couple. That coffee cup friendship extended into the next generation and proved how one simple act can cross decades.

The sun was fading over the trees, just beginning to turn colour, but the flowers and landscaping were still visible. Clearly the end of summer was at hand. He had built a fire, not in the traditional outdoor fireplace but a huge stone circle one surrounded by a moat. Their Jack Russell was on guard duty against all frogs that hopped in and out of the moat.

Their other dog was quick to find a marshmallow on a stick that had yet to be toasted.

Time with them is always a gift. We’ve shared Indian meals, murals, cries of sleeping policemen, chateaus, olives, laughter, eagles soaring and memories on two continents. I am hopeful for more to come.

Geographically I am closer to my roots than I normally am albeit for only a short-short time. Looking at the land where I grew up, seeing people from the past, were what made me into me.

They say you can never enter a river in the same place twice, but you can enter in many places letting the water nourish your roots.




This is the land where I grew up. The house burned down. Their are only a few of the original 50 pines still standing. The two huge rocks which I turned into western badlands, Greek temples, tea party tables and more are still there.



This dog can jump three feet in the air, but does not think he can get over the gate. His much bigger brother, thinks the same thing.