![]() Tiburon, where I grew up, used to be a working-class town where the trains still ran. ![]() You could see the Golden Gateīridge over to the right behind Belvedere, where the richer people lived the anise was said to have been brought over at the turn of the century by the Italians who gardened for the people of Belvedere. The buildings rose up out of the water on the other side of the bay, past Angel Island, past Alcatraz. ![]() ![]() The railroad yard below our house was ringed in green, in grass and weeds and blackberry bushes and shoulder-high anise plants that smelled and tasted of licorice this wreath of green, likeĪ cell membrane, contained the tracks and the trains and the roundhouse, where engines were repaired. Yet each step brought me closer to the verdant pad of faith on which I somehow stay afloat today. The soft armchair of the Christian Science mom, adoption by ardent Jews-I can see how flimsy and indirect a path they made. When I look back at some of these early resting places-the boisterous home of the Catholics, Each prepared me for the next leaf on which I would land, and in this way I moved across the swamp of doubt and fear. Like lily pads, round and green, these places summoned and then My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another. ![]()
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