Picking up sticks

When I was young and complained of being bored, one or the other of my parents would point me outside and tell me to go pick up sticks. Put them in a pile. Tie them up. And the next time you’re bored, you can go pick up some sticks out of the neighbor’s yard, just to be neighborly.

These days, as an old man, picking up sticks is my absolute last choice of fun activities. But sometimes, out of nostalgia, I go out and pick up a few. I listen to the birds. I watch the cats sun themselves on the porch. And I often think about my place in this world, and how I can make a difference.

One time, I daydreamed about making a small stick house and placing it under a cool shade tree. Not a fancy house. A miniature bungalow, with picket fence and vegetable garden. Then I imagined taking the best sticks I could find and whittling the Richardson Family out of them. Paul and Stephanie, and their twin daughters, Stacie and Gracie.

They would be a beautiful family. They’d love the outdoors and often have picnics in their front yard. Gracie would play some kind of string instrument while Stacie sang. I wouldn’t be able to understand a word, but it would be beautiful, nonetheless.

Over time, new houses would pop up and more families would move in. Sally and Kim in the condo on the corner. Fred Johnson and his bulldog Alfred in No. 8. The Ramirez’s and their three boys in the two story on the cul-de-sac. Omar and Kafa in the A-frame. And it wouldn’t be long before the neighborhood was alive with children playing, people going off to work, gardens, volleyball nets, swing sets, kids taking the bus to school, dogs patiently waiting for them to come back home — and the parties. A block party every month. Sometimes a mid-month party, just for the heck of it.

It would be a nice neighborhood. They’d be great neighbors. I’d walk my dog over to that corner of the yard just to hear the joyous sounds that SHOULD be heard in every neighborhood. And they’d always make me feel welcome. 

But then I imagined, what would I do if one Saturday evening I found everything unusually quiet? No lights on, no sounds of people singing or kids playing ball. All deserted and silent except for a faint crying from somewhere up in the trees.

I imagined it being Maria, the Cortez’s youngest daughter. Hiding. And she’d tell me how a squadron of Stick Soldiers stormed the neighborhood at midnight and took everybody away, saying they didn’t belong there, that they were being sent back to where they came from.

I’d blame myself, of course. I should’ve whittled them a society that would have better looked after their health and welfare, and with empathy. Either that or dug them a moat and armed them with cedar howitzers. Instead, somebody else carved out their own form of justice, making little ones like Maria forever afraid of losing their loved ones in the middle of the night — just because they were different.

Today, when I find myself daydreaming instead of picking up sticks, I remember how my parents would shake their heads and say things like, “You’re going to have a hard time making it in this world if you don’t get your head out of those clouds.” And it’s true. But it’s also true that great change never comes unless someone is following a dream. So I dream of kindness, and a better world yet to come.