Ecobiography:
Are You There Mother Nature? It’s me, Darla.
I was born in the city. On August 28th, 1967,
I entered the world in a hospital overlooking a statue of Sam Houston—my city’s
namesake. Houston, Texas was going
through changes in the late 1960’s so after the Texas Southern University
riots, my parents moved to the suburbs when I was only two years old.
My mother was a native Houstonian, but my father grew up
in farm country. Sagerton, Texas is a small town located near the Oklahoma
border. My grandparents were farmers until the Dust Bowl swept over West Texas.
After battling the dust for a few years, they finally packed up and headed to
Houston. Along the way, their car broke down and my grandfather worked on a
farm in Orange until he could afford to repair his car.
Even when they arrived in Houston, they still kept their
connection to the land. Most people wouldn’t believe it, but the most
gentrified part of Houston used to be full of small farms complete with
chickens, cows, and pigs. Now where $800,000 condominiums stand, my
grandparents bought a house with a garden and cow. For my father though, farming
was a symbol of the poverty that he wanted to escape. When he became
successful, he headed out to the suburbs with its cultured lawns and rose
bushes. Yet, he couldn’t escape nature. To this day, we have the most amazing
front and back yard on the block. When we moved to our current house, he was
thrilled to have a completely empty backyard to use as his palette.
As a child, I grew up in a neighborhood full of boys so,
when I wasn’t reading, I spent lots of time exploring, riding my bike, and
building forts. One of our neighbors had a really long driveway which he let us
ride our bikes on and use it as a cut through to the vacant lot behind his
house. We used to build houses with dead wood and pine needles on that lot. It
had a nice deep ditch which was perfect for bicycle acrobatics. I was in high
school when they finally built a house on the lot and I was so upset when they
uprooted all the old trees to make room for a tract home.
Two of my most sacred spots were the spaces under our oak
trees. We had a White Oak in the backyard where I spent hours playing,
swinging, and climbing. It had huge roots what made a perfect spot to sit and
read for hours. I felt like that tree was my friend. I was so unhappy when it
died. My parents tried everything to save it but disease overtook it when I was
in middle school.
A similar fate befell the oak tree in our front yard. It
was on the property line between our house and our neighbor’s house. It was a witness
to many arguments and important conversations with the neighbor boys. There were
water fights and spirited games of hide and go seek. My sister would spread out
a blanket under the tree and read to me. After she went off to college, I would
do the same thing with the neighbor boys’ younger sister, Jenny. I was the
youngest in our family so Jenny became my adopted baby sister.
I had just returned from college in 1990 when a tornado
pulled the ancient oak out of the ground and deposited it between our houses.
The roots alone were twice my five feet, five inch height. An arborist figured
that tree was over 200 years old. Again, I felt like I lost a member of my
family.
I think nature has always been there to soothe and heal
me. From the trees in my yard to the birds that flock to our feeders, I take
solace in nature. Over the past few years, I became disconnected from nature. I
caged myself up inside my house and library. When I look back, some of my
happiest times occurred when I was communing with nature. In 2006, I joined a
marathon training group that had a group walk/run every Saturday morning. It
was very early so I got to watch the sun rise while I was walking. I felt so
calm and relaxed. It helped me make it through a stressful week. I realize now
that I need to get that back. I need to watch the sun rise.
