A Journey to Sierra East
Young Paul embarks on a daring adventure in the forests of Sunbury to find Sierra East, overcoming various obstacles with courage and curiosity.
Paul, a 7-year-old boy with short grey hair, lived in Sunbury, Australia. One sunny day, he decided to explore the forest near his home. His goal was to find a mysterious place called Sierra East. But soon, Paul realized he was lost. The forest was dense, and the paths were confusing.
Suddenly, Paul noticed he had wandered off the main path. He tried to retrace his steps, but everything looked the same. His heart began to race. He knew he needed to find his way back quickly. The forest was getting darker.
Paul decided to follow a small stream he found, remembering advice he'd heard: 'Streams often lead to rivers, and rivers lead to civilization.' He followed the stream for what felt like hours. His legs were tired, and he was getting hungry.
As the sun began to set, Paul felt hopeless. He sat down on a rock, thinking about giving up. - What am I going to do now? he asked himself. Just then, he heard a rustling noise. A friendly-looking sheep emerged from the bushes, wagging its tail.
The sheep seemed to beckon Paul to follow it. Desperate, Paul decided to trust the sheep. - Maybe you know the way out, he said hopefully. The sheep led him through the forest, and eventually, they reached a larger path. Paul saw a sign: 'Welcome to Retreat.'
Relieved, Paul knelt to pet the sheep. - Thanks, buddy, he said gratefully. In Retreat, Paul found his team and explained his adventure. - You’re lucky to have found the sheep, a teacher said. Everyone at Retreat was so happy to see Paul back safely. - I'm sorry, everyone. I should have stayed on the main path, Paul admitted.
Paul, a 7-year-old boy with short grey hair, lived in Sunbury, Australia. One sunny day, he decided to explore the forest near his home. His goal was to find a mysterious place called Sierra East. But soon, Paul realized he was lost. The forest was dense, and the paths were confusing.
Suddenly, Paul noticed he had wandered off the main path. He tried to retrace his steps, but everything looked the same. His heart began to race. He knew he needed to find his way back quickly. The forest was getting darker.
Paul decided to follow a small stream he found, remembering advice he'd heard: 'Streams often lead to rivers, and rivers lead to civilization.' He followed the stream for what felt like hours. His legs were tired, and he was getting hungry.
As the sun began to set, Paul felt hopeless. He sat down on a rock, thinking about giving up. - What am I going to do now? he asked himself. Just then, he heard a rustling noise. A friendly-looking sheep emerged from the bushes, wagging its tail.
The sheep seemed to beckon Paul to follow it. Desperate, Paul decided to trust the sheep. - Maybe you know the way out, he said hopefully. The sheep led him through the forest, and eventually, they reached a larger path. Paul saw a sign: 'Welcome to Retreat.'
Relieved, Paul knelt to pet the sheep. - Thanks, buddy, he said gratefully. In Retreat, Paul found his team and explained his adventure. - You’re lucky to have found the sheep, a teacher said. Everyone at Retreat was so happy to see Paul back safely. - I'm sorry, everyone. I should have stayed on the main path, Paul admitted.
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The Overcoat
One day, I will tell you about the overcoat. The vintage brown artifact with epaulets and pockets stoically suspended from the stout wooden peg in the recesses of the hall closet. The coat no child would ever dream of wearing outside. That coat. You might come to love that garment one day, as I do; to value its heft and utility, to see it, perhaps, as an extension of yourself. One day, you just might. I brought the coat with us that Thursday to the hospital near Tel Aviv; or perhaps I intended to bring it but did not. I had been cherishing the garment since October and tossed it in the trunk of the Camry — on top of the ballistic helmets and vests — before leaving home to collect your older sister from preschool. Your grandmother, Auntie Bella, and I. "A Jew should always have a coat. Preferably one with pockets." Not that we needed outerwear that afternoon. The weather was dry and bright; the sun winking through enormous clouds as it tends to do in March after consecutive days of rain. Winter was still in charge, but Spring was teasing. The scent of seasons changing was such that you would savor — grassy, earthy, and engaging like a fine tobacco blend. With the moonroof open just right, to let in the sort of texture I prefer. One day, I will tell you about that Winter. How I was crafting these sentences in a writing workshop during your birth. One day, you will know how — by the time we were navigating toward the maternity ward — I had been stabbing my hands deep into the side pockets of the coat since October and shrugging my shoulders for comfort more than warmth. One day, you might hear about those ballistic helmets and vests. About The Day The Music Died, and everything that came next. “Tell us about the coat, Grandpa,” you might insist one day. A coat with many pockets; weighty, functional, and warm. Like the forest green U.S. Army bomber jacket your Zaidy Sam kept phylacteries in during WW2, when stationed in Burma. Like the woolen trench coat your Bubbie Bella hid gold coins in during that same war, when surviving in a Ukrainian forest. A coat well made keeps one snug and has pockets to store essentials. A Jewish coat also has pockets for necessities one often forgets. Pockets for conflicting emotions. Pockets for Worry and Sadness. Pockets for Gladness and Hope. That Winter I had been making use of the garment’s more practical hollows and neglecting others. That is how I remember it. I was rummaging for solace in all the wrong places and brought the allegorical coat along to reach into pockets I suddenly recalled were there. Pockets for Poetry and Prayer. Pockets for Loving and Light. Like your birth that March in Israel, your other Zaidy also emerged from such pockets in Poland during another period of Darkness. Our family knows about hardship and sorrow. Our family knows about hidden pockets, too. “Tell us again about that Thursday, Grandpa,” you might one day insist. Then, I might set aside my briar wood pipe and tell you about when the sun in March was grinning. When your Grammy baked sweet potato muffins for your mother — you know the ones — and we had to double back to the hospital from the highway after forgetting to leave important documents behind for your father. How the Fall holidays had not yet ended and the Spring holidays were unimaginably looming after 153 Days of Discontent. How you were a second — and also a first — in our family. How your arrival offered Light when we needed it most. “That is how I remember it,” I might one day tell you and your sister who devours stories like M&M’s. “Later, the coat was on its peg when your parents would finally bring you home.”
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