One of my all time favorite books is “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” by Betty Smith. There so many scenes from it that I remember vividly: Cheap Charlie’s penny pick, crisp dickys and paper collars, Sissy pulling a flask from her corset (which even as a teenager, I understood was symbolic of nurturing pity). I also have so many memories of being with the book. I remember reading it as teenager, being transported from the second floor of our Tudor home in San Diego, to Francie’s Brooklyn fire escape. I remember bringing it with me to college, and tucking it into my backpack in case I had a spare moment to read in between classes. I remember being curled up on my slip-covered, second-hand loveseat in my just-barely-scraping-by Lakeview basement apartment, and stumbling upon the 1945 black-and-white movie on tv. I had no idea there was a movie version, and was delighted that I recognized it, even without seeing the title. There was something about this story that always drew me in. Francie’s world, and all its uncertainties and upsets, was always a source of constant comfort for me.
As I grew older, I somehow left the story behind. I don’t even know where my original copy is anymore, which crushes me just a bit as it did make many moves with me. But when I moved into my new office on campus, I was reminded of it, as just outside my office is a beautiful tree. I’m not sure what kind it is, but it’s the first thing I say hello to every day, no matter the weather, the mood, or whatever else is going on. Like Francie’s tree, it’s my daily reminder of hope and perserverence.
