After the "all over the place in every way" week I've had, reading these
stories about trees is such a pleasure. They remind me of my favorite trees, as
though they're cherished companions, and make me think of roots, both literal
ones and personal ones.
The first tree I knew well was a mimosa that grew by the side of the road in
front of the house I grew up in. I'd climb way up into it, and loved the smooth
bark, the fan-like leaves and the fuzzy pink flowers and especially that one
strong branch that hung over the road. I could hang on that one and swing and
twirl over, and never worried about falling. Somehow that tree took care of me
and it was never scary until it was time to climb down.
There were huge oaks surrounding another part of the yard, and one of my
favorite things to do in the summer was to lay flat on my back in the grass and
look at the sun through the branches, like swaying lace, dark against the
bright sun and cloudless blue sky. That truly was a beautiful sight (and unlike
most of the things I tried, not at all dangerous). And there was the tickle of
the grass and being completely alone and physically vulnerable but warmed by
the sun and protected by those huge trees. Those weren't the words I would have
used then, of course. Then it just felt good and I loved what I saw. There was
always some wind in those high branches so it was a constantly changing sight,
with the rays of light shooting through at different places.
One of those oaks was near the house, next to my bedroom, and protecting the
porch. One day when I was a teenager I heard my parents talking about cutting
it down and I was immediately upset and arguing and asking why, and saying no,
no, no. (They're looking at me as though thinking, Where did we get this wild
alien kid?) In their minds it was a very simple decision. The tree was too near
the house, the roots were going to damage the house, it was not a big deal. I
fought with them all week about it and my siblings did too (more wild alien
kids). There was no more explanation and there was to be no discussion at all
about it. So on that Saturday morning, there were noises outside and I remember
opening an eye and seeing all the sunlight in the room and looking out the
window and seeing this magnificent tree without its branches and with ropes
around it about to be pulled down into the yard. I burst into tears. And from
then on saw my parents as hard-hearted killers. The tree was cut off about
three feet from the ground and all the branches just hauled away somewhere,
thrown away. I felt angry and incredibly sad everytime I saw the stump with all
its rings clearly visible. Then my argument to the tree-killers was to at least
cut the tree down completely instead of leaving part of it exposed like that.
It was as though the tree needed a dignified burial and leaving part of it
behind was insulting. It was truly a living thing to me that was to be treated
with dignity, and if the decision was made to destroy it, at least do that with
some respect. Well, that didn't make sense to anyone except me and my sisters,
so it was a long time, at least a year, before my father finally sawed off the
trunk near the ground and grass started growing over it, and once the earth
reclaimed it I could let it go.
Years later I realized how different the viewpoints about that incident were --
I didn't spend any money at all on that house that could possibly be damaged by
the tree's roots and my parents are very practical people and.... well, I still
miss that tree.
So, Dean, if you have an extra green pin, please put one on the map at Dunn
Loring, Virginia, where the roots still exist but don't do any damage at all.
And thank you also for your description of the Japanese feeling toward trees.
Makes perfect sense to me.
My close-at-hand favorite tree is a slender crooked one outside my apartment
window in a patch of ground in the sidewalk. It covers my windows with leaves
in the summer and makes a pattern on the walls in the winter and just the fact
that it grows at all amid this hard greyness amazes me. And it's big enough to
house some very noisy birds, so even though it's modest in size, it's a comfort
to many living creatures, myself included.
Debra Shea
NP: Richard Thompson Hand of Kindness
