Thoughts from the journey… Excerpts from a day in the life of Sherry McLaughlin

Plant a Tree

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees,

books in the
 running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

–William Shakespeare

“C’mon, Shei (my nickname)! Let’s go to Bordines!” The tone in his voice was unmistakable—and a sure sign that spring had sprung. The local nursery was calling his name and he was ready to go and spend some serious money on plant life.

My father would commandeer my services several times a year. I’m not sure why I was the one chosen. My hunch is that I was the one least likely to complain. So there I would find myself, riding shotgun in the family station wagon headed to a large nursery.

Once we arrived, he would jump out of the car and begin eagerly perusing the aisles. I would grab one of those bulky, flat carts and attempt to keep up with his quick step. He would stop and survey the trees and shrubs and when he found one he wanted he would point to it.

“That one. That one is nice,” he would say.

I would walk over, bend down and hoist the plant onto the cart and we would continue on. In a matter of 20 minutes, the cart would be loaded to overflowing with plants of all sizes and shapes.

Oh, yeah, and we couldn’t forget the peat moss. Those giant bags of decomposed greenery that were never easy to maneuver. I would look at his face, smiling and eager, and I would look at the cartload of stuff and think, “There is something wrong with this picture. We are going to have a ton of work ahead of us.”

My father was notorious for working a lot—and loving it. He applied the same kind of fervor to his gardening as he did to his work in the emergency room. On our spring planting days, it wouldn’t be unusual for us to be in the garden digging, fertilizing, planting and watering until late into the evening. I think he purposely had the front yard adequately lit so that our workday could continue past sundown. After all, he was used to pulling 24-hour shifts in the ER—working a 12-hour day in the garden was practically a vacation.

As we worked, he would talk. Topics would range from what I wanted to do when I grew up, to travel ideas to singing songs to why it was important to put plastic down before we dumped rocks in strategic places according to his landscape plan—all intermixed with directions on where I should haul the next tree or plant to be inserted into the ground. Periodically, he would pause, stand up and admire a tree that he had just planted.

I mean, really admire it. For a really long time.

You know, chest out, hands on hips and dirt smudged on his smiling face. Sheer satisfaction. Five minutes might pass before anything was said.

Being the impatient youngster that I was and feeling the exhaustion of a long day, I would look up at the setting sun and then look over at my dad and think…it’s just a tree.

“Doesn’t that look nice?” he would ask with a gleam in his eye.

“Yeah, dad. Looks great,” I would reply.

By the end of the day, our yard would be transformed into something fitting of a famous garden in Paris. Those are not my words. Friends, family and neighbors passing by would pause at the masterpiece. Some would just shake their heads. But all would smile.

Back then, to me that garden represented a lot of work. Some completed—and a lot more on the way. Since he passed away, I’ve looked at that garden with different eyes. It was a place where I grew up—where I got to see a side of my dad that many didn’t. A place where stories were told and songs were sung. A place where I learned how to work until dark, plant a tree—and take the time to admire it. It was a place where history was made between my dad and I. Thank God I never complained.

I think he knew I would stop to really admire it one day. Somehow, I think he knew—one day I would need to.

The majestic garden with its flowers, bricks, rocks and fountains has since been overhauled and simplified. But what remains are six of the most beautiful Japanese maple trees I have ever seen. Proud. Dependable. History.

I now have a house of my own with three Japanese maple trees planted in the yard. Funny thing. After a hectic day of work, chores and life in general, I find myself sitting on my front step or in the back yard just staring at those trees—sometimes for an hour—silent and smiling inside and out.

And I know my son probably looks at me and thinks, “Mom, it’s just a tree.”

The wonder is that we can see these trees and not wonder more.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson

Life Lesson #3

Plant a tree with someone you love.

Long after you are gone,

The lessons of work, life and love

Will go a long way to healing a soul.

True Liberty

The love of liberty is the love of others. –William Hazlitt

As a new immigrant to the U.S., my father traveled to New York City on a quest to view a symbol. Hopping in his car and making his way toward the East Coast, he fought the traffic jams and hordes of people to make his way to Liberty Island. Though he had been in the States for several months, I believe that was the day my father first felt his freedom. Gazing up at the 250,000 lb. statue with tears in his eyes, that was also the day he vowed he would share it with everyone he met.

My dad was a visionary and a “get-it-done-er”. He was notorious for dreaming up grand schemes and making sure they came to fruition. No task was too small when it was a great idea coupled with some good, old-fashioned passion.

In the late summer of 1973, my father was a young physician practicing in Michigan. During his day, he would come in contact with other immigrant Filipinos, many of whom were employed at the same facility. He quickly recognized that the Land of Opportunity was doling out some hard lessons to most of them. Freedom came with a price and many young Filipinos were struggling to make ends meet.

He commiserated with a couple of his fellow Filipino physicians. “It is a shame that people come to this country and never get a chance to really see it,” he said. “I have a great idea. Why don’t we rent three Greyhound buses and take as many Filipinos as we can to the Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington D.C.? We can pick up some extra hours moonlighting in the ER to pay for the buses.” I can picture my dad saying it with a twinkle in his eye. I imagine his friends laughed until they realized—he wasn’t kidding.

So, the plan was put into motion. They divided the cost by three and arranged for the buses to be rented. They proceeded to invite every Filipino they ran into—some friends and some strangers—to come along for the trip of a lifetime. As the deadline for the big payment approached, his two comrades realized they would fall short of the goal. They had not been able to work the extra hours they had planned on. It appeared the big trip was off.

I imagine my father sat for a moment, picturing the disappointed looks of all the people they had invited. Not to be deterred, he flew into action. He applied for an American Express card and rented the buses. He shouldered the cost by working even more hours in the month he had to repay his debt, and I imagine he did it with joy in his heart.

The trip must have been incredible. Can you imagine being one of those invited who had never before met my dad?

“Hi. I notice you are Filipino. Would you like to go on a trip to Washington DC?... No…it won’t cost a thing…really.”

Actually, that is my version of how I think the conversation would have transpired. In reality, my father probably greeted them in his native tongue and if they answered back—they were in. Young and old. Professional and non-professional. Old friend and soon to be new friend. All were handed the gift of freedom to move about a free country.

The details of the trip are sketchy to me. I was too young to remember much of it. But at his funeral, someone told the story—and I saw the picture.

If you think you can fit a lot of Filipinos into an averaged size kitchen, just imagine how many you can pack into three Greyhound buses. The picture was worth a thousand words and probably a thousand stories since. A sea of brown-skinned people with cameras slung around their necks, grinning from ear to ear, standing aside the giant vehicles. Happy. Eager. Proud.

I looked at the photograph and smiled. So, that’s what freedom looks like.