Previously: Mother, Nike and I had spent the night at my friend Trudy’s house, remaining safe from the aftermath of a hurricane. There was danger of our house sliding into the brook behind our house.

When the three of us ran upstairs to the bathroom, we gasped in unison. In the exact spot Nike and I had been standing, the branches of fall-colored leaves were sticking right through the ceiling.

Do you remember, Ma, It was about 9:00 pm, long after we were supposed to be

The memory of that crack of thunder has stayed with me even to this day. Thunder and lightning had not always affected me in a traumatic way. Now I have a lifelong case of PTSD.

At work if an angry patient gave me indication they were going to slam a door, as long as I could emotionally prepare for it, I was fine. However, if someone slammed a door behind me, I was reduced to the reactions of a three-year-old again. That's how PTSD works.

When it seemed to rain for days and there was nothing very interesting to do, we’d stand in the window and watch the rain pour down into the brook, which by the way, wasn’t as close to the house anymore.

Mother made sure there was at least another fifteen feet of fill dumped in. When we watched the lightning strike the trees up on the hill across the brook, it still felt too close. I grew to hate the lightning and still do, because I know thunder will follow.

It is no wonder that every time I hear thunder, I put my hands up to cover my head. One time, one of the few times our father took us anywhere, we were at a circus, the cannon went off and that was it. I was struck with terror again. Everyone with us had to leave because I was dissolved to a bawling three-year-old, and of course it was my fault.

One summer, I noticed the path of the air traffic for a not-too-distant airport had been altered. When the helicopters, consistently checking for illegal crops, whirred above my head for about two weeks, I pretty well went over the emotional edge.

After two years, I was tiring of new PTSD incidents. I began to put things together. I had long ago suspected I was in WWII in my most recent previous lifetime.

Where else would I have had the knowledge of the sound of bombs being dropped or surroundings being shelled, with planes buzzing overhead? Experiencing the stirring of my nerves with explosions equal to M-80’s in my wooded neighborhood enraged me.

Cross the Brook

With the brook’s banks swollen with dark, murky undulating, roaring currents, sometimes for days, we stayed away.

When we could cross the brook, we would be found there in all seasons. There was an abundance of different kinds of berries and Mother showed us all the good spots. I concluded because I’d never caught poison ivy in all that berry hunting, that I wasn’t allergic to it.

So, when I was bragging, I felt compelled to dramatically demonstrate to everyone I was an exception who was not allergic to poison ivy by rolling in it to prove it.

I had you going, didn’t I? I was not affected by it, nor have I ever shown signs of being allergic to it.

Some might say, “Don’t hex it.”

It’s kind of late for that as I sit here in my 76th going on 77th year of life.

Strangely enough, when picking berries, we didn’t eat very many. We each focused on filling our two small tin peanut butter pails.

When Nike and I got back to the kitchen, Mother clapped and smiled saying, “You did it. I don’t see any berry juice on your faces. Well, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

We became excited when she grabbed the metal colander and began rinsing a couple of handfuls of juicy blackcaps. We were soon seated at the dining room table with a big bowl of berries covered with milk and sugar. What was left over went into a precious pie.

When we weren’t berrying, we were chopping huge ferns to build a big fern house constructed of sticks lashed in some places with wild grapevines, covered with ferns. I still love the sight of ferns, I have a whole backyard full of them now.