Sassafras Tea

He stepped off the patio of the vacation home where he was staying with his family.  His wife and children had gone shopping.  He had begged off, desiring an hour of solitude before their next activity, whatever that might be. 

He could feel the heat starting to build as the bright, July sun climbed high into the cloudless blue sky.  The cool shade of the adjacent woods beckoned.  He decided to enter by the well-worn path that presented itself at the edge of the manicured lawn.  He breathed in the earthy aroma as he followed the path beneath the canopy of trees.  It stirred youthful memories of days spent exploring the woods near his boyhood home. 

“There’s a path we’ve never taken.  Let’s see where it leads.” 

It might dead-end at a cliff or a wall of undergrowth too thick and thorny to push through.  But it might also lead to treasure – at least in the minds of young boys. 

“Wow, I can’t believe someone threw this stuff away.”

“There’s a radio.  I’m going to take it home and see if it still works.”

A fork in the pathway interrupted his reflection.  A cluster of trees caught his eye and drew him down the trail to the left. 

Is that a sassafras tree? he wondered.  He examined its leaves and decided it might be a tulip tree.  His thoughts once again raced back to his boyhood rambles in the woods.  No, I’ll bet it is a sassafras tree, he thought as he looked more closely at the leaves.  There were three different types – a single lobe, another shaped like a mitten and the third looked like a trident with thick, shapely tines.  Only one way to tell for sure.  He plucked one of the leaves from a branch, stuck the stem in his mouth and bit down.  There it is – that root beer-like taste.

“Mom, how do you make sassafras tea?” he asked, looking up from his homework spread across the kitchen table.

“I’m not sure,” she answered as she continued ironing one of her husband’s shirts.  “Why don’t you try calling Ed and Wendy King on Party Line?”

Party Line was a show on KDKA radio.  People called in with all sorts of trivia questions or tried to guess the answer to puzzles that the hosts posed to their audience.  You never heard the voice of the caller.  Party Line was broadcast in the days before radio had figured out how to use a 5-second delay to censor rude or profane callers.  Instead, you just heard Ed or Wendy’s side of the conversation, which always began with one of them saying, “Hello, Party Line.”

His mother listened to Party Line most every night after his younger brothers were tucked into bed.  He was older and got to stay up till 10:30 or so, especially when Dad was working the 4 to 12 shift.  He had homework to finish and guessed that Mom appreciated the company while Dad was at work.

“I suppose it’s worth a try.  What’s their number?”

“Just listen to the radio.  They say the number every few minutes.”

He picked up a pencil and wrote down the call-in number the next time Wendy announced it.  He slid out of his chair and walked over to the black wall phone near the cellar door.  He lifted the receiver and dialed the number. 

“It’s busy.”

“Hang up and try again.”

He tried again.  Still busy.  And again and again.  Still busy.

After about 15 tries, his mother suggested, “Try dialing all but the last number.  When it sounds like they’ve hung up on a caller, dial the last number.  Maybe that will work.”

He tried his mother’s suggestion, but got the same result.  Twice, three and four times and still the annoying busy signal tone came out of the receiver.  Then, on the fifth try, the phone started to ring. 

“Mom, it’s ringing!”

“Please hold for Mr. King,” a voice said.  He listened intently for maybe thirty seconds.

“Hello, Party Line.”  It was Ed King.

“Hi.  I was wondering if you could tell me how to make sassafras tea,” he heard himself speak into the receiver. 

“I have a caller that would like to know how to make sassafras tea,” he heard Ed’s voice coming out of the radio.

“That’s a good question,” Wendy chimed in.  

He hung up the phone and sat back down at the kitchen table to listen for the answer.  Mom continued with her ironing, and Ed and Wendy took a station break.  When they returned, they were on to another caller’s question.

“They’re probably having someone research sassafras tea,” his mother said.  They listened for the next half hour, but neither Ed nor Wendy said another word about sassafras tea.

“It’s getting to be your bedtime,” his mother said as she gathered up the ironed shirts to carry to the bedroom closet.

“That was completely worthless,” he moaned.

“Maybe you should just dig up some roots and boil them,” his mother suggested.

He smiled as he pulled another leaf from the tree, stuck the stem between his teeth and started walking back toward the house.

And When October Goes

I should be over it now I know

It doesn’t matter much

How old I grow

I hate to see October go*

This past Wednesday was the 7^th day of October.  It also was the 62^nd anniversary of my entrance into this world.  I am retired, though I prefer the term, “self-employed.”  In other words, I have a lot of flexibility in my schedule.  So on the afternoon of the day I became eligible for early social security benefits, I decided to take a walk.  My walk took me to a graveyard that I visit quite often.  It’s not far from my home and contains pleasant curving pathways leading past an interesting mix of tombstones.  This cemetery also contains lots of trees that provide shade on warm summer days.  Its paths lead up and down hills which give me a nice workout.  

On this October day I noticed that the leaves on the trees were just beginning to change.  On my way to the cemetery, I saw one tree resplendent in reds, yellows and oranges.  Some of the trees in the cemetery had begun to take on a yellow-green cast.  But most of the trees still wore the dull, dark green of late summer.

As I walked along the cemetery’s pathways, one tall oak caught my attention.  It had just a few shocks of bright yellow within its crown of green.  It reminded me of a man whose hair had started to turn gray around the temples – a mature, distinguished look.  My own hair had once been dark brown, thick and wavy.  Too many years ago it had changed to salt and pepper.  Now it is pure salt.  I considered whether I was now in the October of my life.  If so, I hoped it was early October, but feared it was later in the month.  My leaves have already turned, but at least they haven’t yet fallen. 

I pondered 62.  Is that really so old?  In my forties, I never read the obituaries.  Now I read them every day.  I take note of the ages of those who have died.  Some are in their sixties; some are even younger.  In today’s paper, I noted that most are in their eighties and nineties.  That gives me hope.  On the other hand, my father had a heart attack at 57.  My brother had a stroke at 55.  My mother was stricken with cancer at 63 and died at 67.  My wife’s father died at 62.  But then there’s my uncle who is still active and going on 90.  More hope.  I have a photograph of my grandparents.  They must be in their early sixties because they both were dead at 65.  They look very old to me.  I think I look much younger, but maybe I’m just kidding myself. 

My mother died in mid-November – the 13^th to be exact.  My father survived his first heart attack and made it to December before the second one took his life.  I tell myself I have months ahead of me.  But I hate to see October go. 

* When October Goes, words by Johnny Mercer, music by Barry Manilow.  See Barry perform it on YouTube.