Under the Doughnut Tree

Under the Doughnut Tree

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Under the Doughnut Tree is the journey of becoming over age 60. I’ll journey both back in time and forward with future dreams.

“Breathe in” and live, love and remember…

I think we all have a doughnut tree... A place that takes us back to being 13.... a place that felt like the beginning of the worst, yet the magical dream place of what was to come. Perhaps the most contradictory place on earth when you are a depressed 13 years old girl.

Come and join me as I tell the tales and dream the dreams. It’s been a wonderful 50 years since that old tree was the backdrop for the daily gift of the freshest doughnuts In our small town....the only doughnuts in our small town. 

I’d love to say I figured life out during the couple of years that I spent eating my doughnut lunches beneath that tree, but the only thing I figured out was that the questions are endless and life is a journey. 



Sad and Melancholy

How could I be 61 years old? Yesterday I was listening to Karen Carpenter and dreaming of romance, weddings, babies and being just like my older sister. In between Karen Carpenter and now… many soundtracks have played, but for tonight I’ll stay with Karen, James, Carly, Olivia and Carole. The age of massively confused innocence.

If you aren’t 62, I highly suggest you make a playlist of early 70’s sad, melancholic soft rock and spend a boring Saturday afternoon laying on an olive green striped velvet couch being a depressed 13 year old. I’d also suggest finding all of the music on old 33 albums and putting them on a turntable that drops down album by album in a giant console cabinet stereo (but that might get expensive and time consuming). To set the mood, don’t forget it’s a hot summer day with no air conditioning; just a whirring box fan setting on the olive green shag carpet. The sound of the fan is being drowned out by Karen melodiously singing “Rainy Days and Mondays Always Gets Me Down.”

If I had only known

If I had only known how fast the years would pass, I’d have memorized every smile and every year. They are each etched in my heart. I have lived and loved. I have been on the mountain top and I have been broken. 

I remember writing the haunting words to so many poems back then. Words I was just beginning to feel. They still echo with each new heartbreak. At 13, you feel the words in your heart. At 61, they are embedded in your soul. 

Oh but the sweet memories are not even matched by the glazed coated perfectly fresh doughnuts from that little bakery. The innocent boy that would skip class to go buy my precious gift each day had no idea that gift would be etched in time. He read my poems and shook his head. I’m really not sure why he returned to my overly dramatic self and that tree every day. Maybe he was as bored with life as I was? I’m surely positive it wasn’t just to critique the musings in my yellow spiral bound composition notebook. What boy on earth could understand anything a 13 year old girl might write? 

I sure wish I could find that notebook. I know it’s here somewhere.