If anyone's life was ever characterized by trees, mine is.
In my selfishness, I assume that God placed trees in my path for my own good pleasure. There really is nothing in the world like tree-watching. My earliest and fondest tree memory dates back to 1978. The place to be during every season of the year was my granparents' quaint home in a rural farming community.
You couldn't call their place a real farm, but they insisted it had all the proper makings of one. In reality, my grandfather had one horse named Whiskey, a jersey cow named Jersey, and a handful of very nonproductive chickens. There was a so-called barn, but looking back now, I think it would count more as a tool shed. There was a pond as well, but it was so far back on the property it didn't really matter whether it was there or not.
My grandmother planted multitudes of rose bushes all over the yard. The smell was sweet and intoxicating as it spilled out across the yard. When I reminisce about the "farm," memories are still new--authentic as black and white photographs tucked away in albums.
On this so-called farm was a gigantic Sugar Maple tree. It was strategically located beside the tiny, white house. Honestly, the tree was the first thing you saw when you drove up the driveway and ascended the hill. As season gave way to season, the tree stood at attention, waiting for the seven grandchildren to march back in for a visit.
In winter, we would stand at the windows and breathe on them so the heavy frost would melt. Sometimes we even placed our warm cheeks and hands on the frigid glass in an effort to defrost the window and catch a clear view of the tree. We had an inexplicable need to steal one quick glance at the magnificent, naked Sugar Maple that had surrendered to Mother Nature's icy grip.
Spring came, and with it, tiny buds burst forth from the crooked fingers we called branches. They resembled my grandmother's fingers. We'd dream of Summer.
Summer tip-toed in and we invaded the rug of downy grass beneath the Sugar Maple. Leaves brought our tree full circle and we were shaded from the scorching heat. We'd tell stories, share secrets, and make plans to strip the nearby grapevines of their precious fruit. We ate fresh grapes and drank sweet tea under the tree. It was our meeting place--the spot where reality melted into fantasy.
There was an enormous exposed root that jutted out from the front of the tree. Within the root was a pearl--a treasure! Well, it wasn't an actual pearl (I can admit that 29 years after the fact!), but it definitely looked like one. We were determined to dig that pearl out of the Sugar Maple.
We imagined the pearl was full of magic. We dreamed that it would make us rich. Oh, how our imaginations played tricks on us! Our mission was to dig that pearl out of the tree. We dug until we had bulging, scarlet blisters on our fingers.
Fall blew in and the Sugar Maple slowly undressed. We would wildly pile the leaves into huge mountains and dare each other to jump in face first. I would jump for a while, but the wind would whisper, "Come back, faithful one--come back to the secret place." I obeyed. I believed that the mystery of the pearl would eventually be revealed to me. My childhood passed, but a revelation never came.
My sister and I went back to that farm a few years ago to take a picture of the tree. We did want a picture of the tree, but I also wondered if the pearl was still there. I had to see the pearl again. Actually, I planned to return home with the pearl.
We didn't get the picture or the pearl. We didn't even get to dig in the root of the tree. Did I forget to mention that I took a screwdriver, table knife, and ice pick along with me? One of the owners had cut down the Sugar Maple tree. The tree, the root, and the pearl were gone forever. I am not ashamed to say that I cried. How dare they take a chainsaw and render my memory to mere sawdust?
The tree had encased secrets, laughter, and the innocence of a time long past. Could my memory be more than a tree? I stood in the yard and glimpsed the silhouette of a child peeking out of the window. I looked over my shoulder and watched the shadow of a child feeding horses through a barbed wire fence. I closed my eyes and the smell of roses made me deliriously happy. My revelation had come.
Fantasy melted into reality. I finally understood that the entire place was the essence of my memories--not just the tree. The place that just happened to have a towering Sugar Maple. The place that my grandparents' called their farm. [copyrighted TNTNKY, 2007]
In my selfishness, I assume that God placed trees in my path for my own good pleasure. There really is nothing in the world like tree-watching. My earliest and fondest tree memory dates back to 1978. The place to be during every season of the year was my granparents' quaint home in a rural farming community.
You couldn't call their place a real farm, but they insisted it had all the proper makings of one. In reality, my grandfather had one horse named Whiskey, a jersey cow named Jersey, and a handful of very nonproductive chickens. There was a so-called barn, but looking back now, I think it would count more as a tool shed. There was a pond as well, but it was so far back on the property it didn't really matter whether it was there or not.
My grandmother planted multitudes of rose bushes all over the yard. The smell was sweet and intoxicating as it spilled out across the yard. When I reminisce about the "farm," memories are still new--authentic as black and white photographs tucked away in albums.
On this so-called farm was a gigantic Sugar Maple tree. It was strategically located beside the tiny, white house. Honestly, the tree was the first thing you saw when you drove up the driveway and ascended the hill. As season gave way to season, the tree stood at attention, waiting for the seven grandchildren to march back in for a visit.
In winter, we would stand at the windows and breathe on them so the heavy frost would melt. Sometimes we even placed our warm cheeks and hands on the frigid glass in an effort to defrost the window and catch a clear view of the tree. We had an inexplicable need to steal one quick glance at the magnificent, naked Sugar Maple that had surrendered to Mother Nature's icy grip.
Spring came, and with it, tiny buds burst forth from the crooked fingers we called branches. They resembled my grandmother's fingers. We'd dream of Summer.
Summer tip-toed in and we invaded the rug of downy grass beneath the Sugar Maple. Leaves brought our tree full circle and we were shaded from the scorching heat. We'd tell stories, share secrets, and make plans to strip the nearby grapevines of their precious fruit. We ate fresh grapes and drank sweet tea under the tree. It was our meeting place--the spot where reality melted into fantasy.
There was an enormous exposed root that jutted out from the front of the tree. Within the root was a pearl--a treasure! Well, it wasn't an actual pearl (I can admit that 29 years after the fact!), but it definitely looked like one. We were determined to dig that pearl out of the Sugar Maple.
We imagined the pearl was full of magic. We dreamed that it would make us rich. Oh, how our imaginations played tricks on us! Our mission was to dig that pearl out of the tree. We dug until we had bulging, scarlet blisters on our fingers.
Fall blew in and the Sugar Maple slowly undressed. We would wildly pile the leaves into huge mountains and dare each other to jump in face first. I would jump for a while, but the wind would whisper, "Come back, faithful one--come back to the secret place." I obeyed. I believed that the mystery of the pearl would eventually be revealed to me. My childhood passed, but a revelation never came.
My sister and I went back to that farm a few years ago to take a picture of the tree. We did want a picture of the tree, but I also wondered if the pearl was still there. I had to see the pearl again. Actually, I planned to return home with the pearl.
We didn't get the picture or the pearl. We didn't even get to dig in the root of the tree. Did I forget to mention that I took a screwdriver, table knife, and ice pick along with me? One of the owners had cut down the Sugar Maple tree. The tree, the root, and the pearl were gone forever. I am not ashamed to say that I cried. How dare they take a chainsaw and render my memory to mere sawdust?
The tree had encased secrets, laughter, and the innocence of a time long past. Could my memory be more than a tree? I stood in the yard and glimpsed the silhouette of a child peeking out of the window. I looked over my shoulder and watched the shadow of a child feeding horses through a barbed wire fence. I closed my eyes and the smell of roses made me deliriously happy. My revelation had come.
Fantasy melted into reality. I finally understood that the entire place was the essence of my memories--not just the tree. The place that just happened to have a towering Sugar Maple. The place that my grandparents' called their farm. [copyrighted TNTNKY, 2007]
