Seeing the Forest Because of the Trees

          Seeing the Forest Because of the Trees

       

     Memory is a funny thing.  It’s not a tangible item that you can hold onto, put away, and pull out later. Nor is it very reliable because it is so easily manipulated.  The older it gets, the less we can count on it.  Yet, without it, life as we think we know it would not exist.  Without lasting memories, even flawed ones, we would be Ten Second Tom from 50 First Dates, living each moment without context, because nothing sticks. There would be no thought process, or rationalizing.  Most of the pain or joy that we experience in our lives is momentary.  Whether physical or emotional, the majority of feelings we experience dissipates with time.  What stays with us is the memory of it.  We remember the events in our minds, and sometimes the memories are so vivid, that it can be like reliving them over and over.  This is a phenomenon many people associate with the planes hitting the Twin Towers on 9/11.  

     Memory is also the reason for actively living life.  To help quench those cravings that all humans innately have to get better, to understand, to ultimately grow, and to hopefully find that often elusive feeling of contentment.

     My earliest memories are of my hometown, and to my best recollection, start around age four.  Small things like driving to the store (The National General, maybe?  Before it was Rico’s?), Christmas parties with family and family friends, TV shows, and playing outdoors were embedded deeply, because my brain was still an empty canvas. I even have very lucid, specific memories of a trip to Nova Scotia to visit my mom’s relatives. And almost all these moving pictures in my mind had the one common denominator of the small mill town of Uxbridge, Massachusetts, because I have never really lived anywhere else. 

    Growing up in a rural community like Uxbridge has some perks, such as the many acres of woods, fields, rivers, streams, hills, and valleys that the terrain of central Massachusetts had to offer.  But, more importantly was having the freedom to move through it, something that the children of these modern times often lack.  There was no shortage of trees and rocks to climb, or fields to explore over and over.  We often revisited the same places  because they were close and there was literally nothing else to do.  I’m not sure I appreciated it as much as I should have, mainly because I was a somewhat lazy, yet hyperactive, kid who got bored very easily (a frustrating combination that tested my early teachers, and most likely my parents, on many levels).  If it wasn’t my dad kicking me out of the house, it was the maddening lack of quality television that forced me to reprioritize what I should spend my down time doing.  There are only so many reruns of the Brady Bunch you can watch before admitting the outside would be a better option. Boredom is a great motivator.

     Jean and Hurley Silbor, Jr. moved to 133 Hazel Street when I was about two years old.  It gave me, at least in the eyes of a child, the perfect environment. One of my favorite time killers was walking in the back woods.  Hearing the wind push through the pine branches gave the feeling of the world being full of life, like an unfathomably large entity that was breathing.  The solitude, the quietness you only get from being totally by yourself, gave me a strange combined sense of freedom and loneliness. Damming up the nearby stream taught me that nature can be manipulated, but never stopped.  Hours went by like minutes.  Birds sang songs that felt as if they were just for me.  Hearing a rustling of leaves a few yards away was not the alien intruder or comic book bad guy I weirdly hoped for, but instead, disappointingly, was always just a hungry squirrel looking for acorns.  It felt like there was no one for miles, and it all felt like it was mine. 

       I especially loved the tall trees that seemed to climb to the clouds like skyscrapers.  Some had fallen over due to age and disease, and reminded me of abandoned buildings that once had a purpose, but were then just sadly left for the years to take back slowly and irreverently.   Many trees did not stand out, but they would surely be missed if they were gone, drastically altering the big picture. Certain trees and rocks helped guide me through the denser areas, until I found myself back on the familiar path that brought me back home.

     The excursions of my youth feel like another lifetime.  The path and woods that were once so familiar were mostly taken over by the building of Brookside Drive.  The field that led to the steam is now blocked by someone’s home.  The fields that led to the walnut trees I picked from are now surrounded by No Hunting and No Trespassing signs.  No judgement on anyone, just reality. And it brings on a deep mix of appreciation and sadness, something beyond melancholy.  As I got older, life became much more time consuming and hectic, and my visits to the woods were no longer for me, but for my young family.  Now I had responsibilities, as their protection and enjoyment of nature were the higher priorities. 

 

  

        Most adults need to escape the constant demands of their realities, but can’t find the time to visit the places they once did as kids.  Fortunately, there is another way to get that feeling back, at least for me, and as I’ve gotten older (an age I never could have conceived of 20 years ago), I’ve become much more aware of it and appreciative of it.  All I need is a spot without distractions and some relative quiet, and I can close my eyes and visit this place. Like a well preserved and protected national park where my memories exist.  A place where the very personal collection of people, places, and events exist forever, and is always available whenever I choose to “take a walk.” My own forest of memories.

     Navigation through a large, dense area, even a familiar one, is much easier if there is a path.  Like a forest, you can also get lost in your thoughts and memories.  Stuck in the past some might say.  The path keeps you from getting lost, guiding you through all that was, but ultimately showing you the way home.  It allows for continuity of movement, but also gives the assurance that you are ok.   My path for the last forty years has been one person.  Someone who decided that despite my flaws and complexities, would become the biggest part of my life, and of course memories. For my entire adult life she has been my truth.  The one that will not let me get lost in my good and bad times, and will bring me back to reality when I need it, even unwillingly.  As cliche as it sounds, she is my North Star. A beacon that  will always bring me home, and to whom I am eternally grateful.  Thank you Pam.

     Family, of course, is the most important part of my life, and therefore the most visited part of my memories. If you take the walk to Lookout Rock, or hike parts of West Hill Dam, there are areas made up of large pines with the ground blanketed by pine needles.  The sounds and smells are just different, and for me, very familiar and comforting.   This is how I picture the memories of my family.  The strongest, most deeply rooted aspect of my life.  When the sun hits them from the right angle, they cast long shadows.  The pine needles under my feet soften the rough spots of the day.  The long branches provide the perfect amount of cover from too much sun or too much rain in the summer, and can even provide a respite from the bitter cold and wind as they collect snow in the winter.  These memories are beautiful at any time of year.  Whether it is getting married, the births of my kids, family vacations to Murrells Inlet, or playing whiffle ball in the front yard, there are as many good memories of family as there are pine needles.  There is no way to have the capacity to remember them all, but I am comforted by the collection of them.  I can feel it. 

     In certain cases there are clusters of trees growing close together.  But if you look closely, you can see they are all growing out of the same trunk.  In some cases they separate close to the ground, and in others, much further up.  This is how I see the memories I share with my  brother (Shawn) and sister (Heather).  Growing up together in the same house for many years.  Sharing a bedroom with Shawn until I finally moved out.  Playing sports together.  Fighting like crazy.  This was our shared history, which then forked away one out at a time.  Now we all have our own families, as Heather brought Adam into the family, and Shawn brought Erin in also, only strengthening the dynamic. We may all live in different places, but we will always be attached at the beginning.  I am proudly now seeing the same pattern with my children, as well as my nieces and nephews.  All very different personalities and memories, but all rooted together at the beginning.  It is how family memories should be.

 

     In some of the formative parts of my life stand the Redwoods, massive trees that rise taller than all else, casting shadows as far as you can see.  I have been extremely fortunate to have a number of these sentinels standing throughout my forest.  These titans include: Ernie Richards, who I got my first high-school coaching job with, allowing me to experience a high school Super Bowl championship at UHS; Mark Donahue, who coached me in my mediocre basketball career at UHS, and then continued to mentor me as athletic director during my teaching days;  Ken Lachapelle, my uncle and coach of the Northbridge Rams football teams that tormented me for so many years, and the first to offer me a coaching job:  And, of course, my dad, Hurley Silbor, Jr. who dragged me kicking and screaming into adulting while coaching the most successful baseball era at Blackstone- Millville Regional High School.  Each one of these men is a Massachusetts Hall of Fame coach.  I don’t know if it’s normal to have these many special people help to form who you are, but I was certainly privileged to experience it. 

      Standing among them are two canopy style weeping cherry trees that never seem to lose their flowers.  They may not stand as tall or carry the same stature as the Redwoods, but their calm, yet protective, branches provided shade when the heat was too much.  They symbolize my mom, Jean (Davidson) Silbor, and aunt Claire (Davidson) Lachapelle who always seemed to find the positives in bad situations, and often made me laugh when I didn’t want to.  Losing Claire in 2011 was a tough blow, but she still leaves behind a vibe of positive energy.

     As I move on, I follow the path to a much larger, more challenging area. It is covered with many different types of trees such as birch, maple, apple, cherry, and oak.  They are of many different ages and sizes.  They number in the thousands, and seem to be spaced out and grouped in no particular order.  The terrain is steep hills and valleys, and many roots that need to be navigated.  This is my teaching career and the students, faculty, and staff that I have had the honor of meeting and working with over thirty-four years.  Oddly, the memories from over thirty years ago can be as vivid as if they were happening right now.  These memories can get a bit tangled as former teachers became colleagues (Patty Creighton, Fran Damore), former students became colleagues, children of friends became students, children of students became students (God help me on the day I realized that one), and in some cases family became students.  Names like Frank Barbuto, Becky (Robbins) Wise, Sarah (Clarke) Gaudet, Lauren (Moore) Luke, Jen (Ross) Robertson, Bethany (Gaskell) Dzivasen, and  Dave Halacy have been with me for decades, and stand out in this area.  Becky and her husband, Russ, were fellow Spartan school mates, and as for the others, I can still remember where each of them sat in my classes back in the 1990’s and early 2000’s.  Some colleagues, such as Chris Prior and Dave Balunas appeared later in the game, but now have as much of a presence as anyone.  Yet, for some people and events that happened just a few years ago some effort would be needed to access them, requiring me to  consciously leave the path and find my way to the areas that are less frequently visited.  The reason is unclear to me, but I also tend not to question it too much.  The mind works as it will.

     Scattered throughout the forest are selected memories that are like rocks, solid and immovable.  They are fixed in their positions and obvious, standing out even in the densest areas.  You count on them being there.  Time may wear away at the edges, but they will stand like monuments in my psyche (hopefully) until the day I die.  Some are big (meeting Bruce Springsteen at the Zakim Bridge dedication), and some are small (hitting a triple against Brian Parath senior year), but each carries great weight in my world.  Some I felt motivated to blog about (Mr. Tebo, Peter Gosselin, and the Blizzard of ‘78) and some sit in an old yearbook somewhere (the loss of Deanna Macomber).  Some had profound meaning to me personally, like the Toys for Tots Holiday Party that we (Pam D, Becky, and Russ) ran for twenty-two years.  Tucked in among the many teaching memories are those of old friends from high school and college, and the events we experienced together. 

     Teaching is either the easiest difficult job or most difficult easy job, or some combination, but it is not for the weak of heart, and traversing this area of memories can leave you exhausted.  Yet, the exhaustion is what makes it great, because it is so totally worth it.  Intertwining your life with those of so many others can cause extreme pride and extreme heartache.  It can validate all your hard work as it also makes you question everything you’ve ever done.  You never really know if you got it right.  But all these memories, both good and bad, are earned.  They personified me for more than half of my life, and I am a little nervous of the void it will leave.

      The forest is also teeming with life of different types, keeping an air of unpredictability because I just never know when they will pop up.    

     Birds are my spirit animal and the soundtrack of my life.  They represent the many, many songs that have been so important to me at different stages.  I have always been in awe of the fact that I can hear any song in my head whenever I choose. The opening notes of Don’t Stop Believin’ from junior high, to the lyrics of Hotel California (that blew my mind in high school),  to the live guitar solos of Eddie Van Halen that mesmerized me, to the live Pink Floyd show at Foxboro Stadium, to the more modern vibes of Men I Trust (Thank you Audrey!!).  They are there at my command. There are as many musical memories as birds in the forest, and I hold each with the same love and importance.  The type of bird (music) is very dependent on the area of the forest I am visiting.  Sometimes the music will remind me of the time, and sometimes the time reminds me of the music.

 

      TV shows and movies have had an incredible impact on my life, but tend to run like GIF’s in my head, quick blips of pictures and words that symbolize the whole product.  I’m pretty sure there was a time when my brother and I communicated solely with quotes from
The Blues Brothers, The Naked Gun and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.  The scenes will just appear out of nowhere and bring a sudden joy to my day.  These are the animals in my forest.  Some are more common than others, like squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks, with others like deer and raccoons making rare visits, but carrying more meaning.  

      Every now and then, along my walk, there will be a clearing with a breathtaking vista, areas so beautiful that feel so close, but are miles away.  These are my travels, whether it be trips to Fenway Park as a kid, family excursions to Myrtle Beach, school trips to Edinburgh (where the grandfather I never met walked many, many years ago as a young man) or Rome (where Jon Young met his final demise), a bucket list trip to Bora Bora with Pam for our 25th anniversary just before Covid shut down the world, or a very meaningful family cruise in Hawaii.  For some reason, these memories always surprise me, as if I had forgotten them, and then, suddenly, there they are in glorious color on a scale no picture could do justice to.

       Unfortunately, even the paths we choose to travel are not all sunshine and skittles.  They can come with some pretty heavy obstacles that can stand in between you and the collections of happier days that you spent so many years collecting.  Some are small, painful memories that act like briar patches. They catch you and scratch you and impede progress.  Not damaging, but hurt more than they should. These memories might include regrets that you’ve held onto, like not taking that job or staying in that relationship. Others act like poison ivy, giving a stinging, itchy rash that is almost unbearable, but will subside with time.  These might be the more embarrassing moments that pop up occasionally and do a solid job kicking your self-esteem in the teeth and distracting from much more important and impactful memories that you worked so hard for.  And finally, some are huge trees that have fallen across the path, like a wall that is impossible to scale.  These are game-changing nightmares that, unless you can find a way to remove them or somehow circumvent, will keep you from ever reaching that valley of contentment we all strive for forever.  Divorce and deaths in the family top the list for many. 

     I’m finding some of the best ways to deal with the negative memories, and also greatly help in accurately remembering the good ones, is to talk with others who were there.  Living in the town you grow up in makes it easier to find people with whom you can relive the past.  In some cases it helps get past the bad stuff and illuminate the good stuff. 

     There is an old saying that goes, “You are missing the forest for the trees”, meaning that you miss the big picture due to fixating on minor details.

     On June 18th, 2026, I passed in my key and walked out of Uxbridge High School for the last time as a teacher.  I was not excited.  I was not sad.  I felt like I had completed a walk that had started over 34 years ago.  A path that I had for so very long wondered when, where  and how it would end.  Now that I know, I look forward to branching off and creating a new space for more memories.  But, when I walk through this forest of memories knowing full well that this is my perceived reality, and probably far from actual reality, there will be a sign at the beginning of the path that reads, “Seeing the Forest Because of the Trees”, because I have seen the big picture, and all the people and events that make it up. I can proudly say that I have never taken any of it for granted. It will be the place that I visit often before I get too old, where time and disease will destroy it like a fire that can not be put out.

 

 

     Like the path I walk, this blog has been a long, and maybe tiring explanation, and I thank you for making it to the end.  There are just too many people that my life has intersected with to even begin remembering and thanking, but I do want you all to know that at some point you made a difference in my life.  I have thought about all of you more than you could know, and I want to thank you for being part of my forest of memories.

     At some point, you were seen.