In the middle of nowhere, where I was born, trees were ubiquitous and at-hand. They were frames of reference for weather, locations and daily events. They had personalities. They suffered damage and died and were mourned. They had branches for climbing, for harboring snakes, and for providing shade on steamy days. They were black and grey in winter. They categorized, in our Universe, an order of How Things were.
The maple trees in the Front Yard formed double columns. My parents planted some young ones as replacements, when needed. These comradely trees were quiet and well-behaved. They had each other. They were front-parlor trees. They were tolerant of children who mowed and raked and crossed between them on their way to other places. Their limbs were high above climbing-and- swinging reach. The Front Yard was a buffer between the house and the passing road. It kept to itself.
Some trees, on the other hand, grew in solitude. An old maple stood a little east and south of the cistern, in front of the kitchen windows. It held a series of rope-and-plank swings. It shaded a sandpile. It held a bird feeder. It is close to 100 years old. Its the tree I love most. Another tree which grew in solitude at the edges of the yard is a hackberry tree. It grew along the fence between the truck garden and the field. An elderly neighbor woman, who lived down the road when I was a child, told my Dad that she loved to listen to the blackbirds singing in that hackberry tree at night, in the moonlight. I don't recall the blackbirds or the singing, at all. The hackberry tree was split almost in half during a storm, but it still grows.
And there were cedar trees. Two giant cedars, as old as Methusaleh, bordered our driveway when I was a child. But when our old, teensy bungalow was replaced with a newly-constructed, modern (plumbing) ranch house, a neighbor bought the bungalow. He moved it, on a flatbed wagon pulled by a tractor, down the road a few miles to his property and lived in it for many years. However, in the process of moving it out of the narrow driveway, we had to cut down one of the guardian cedars to allow the house to pass through. We remember and mourn the lost cedar to this day. Its surviving fellow seems to be immortal. It compelled Mom to compensate for its lost companion. In the following decades, she tirelessly dug up cedar saplings in the woods, and re-planted them around the edges of the farm yard. Now, the saplings are huge and fragrant, guarding pens and fields in ascending lines of growth stages. The surviving Methuselah cedar still stamds, aloof, at the end of the driveway.
There was another division of trees / time / space: an orchard. Pears and apples and cherries grew on the north side of the rock driveway. They always bore fruit, which was sometimes wormy and thrown to the cows and pigs. But careful salvaging allowed occasional batches of pies, or of apple butter, cooked up in a copper-lined pot in the back yard and preserved in Mom's home canning. The apple trees were kind. They were small enough and large enough to climb. I sat in them and watched down the road where my brothers were at school. I watched the field behind the orchard. I watched apple leaves and sunlight and heard the wind and nothing at all.
Places we live in never leave us. My house today is surrounded by trees and bushes who came to live with me, sometimes planted, sometimes left by passing birds or winds. I don't take for granted the shade, the sounds, the associated wildlife, the beauty of trees. Its nice to see organizations like the Ancient Tree Archive out of Northern Michigan, which preserve genetic material from the world's oldest beings: ancient trees. Its wonderful that so many people all over the world are planting trees and reforming ties. Lord of the Rings, with the walking, talking tree warriors, remembers ancient relations with trees. The plot of the cult movie Avatar features great trees which are the center of spiritual connection on a planet.
The maple trees in the Front Yard formed double columns. My parents planted some young ones as replacements, when needed. These comradely trees were quiet and well-behaved. They had each other. They were front-parlor trees. They were tolerant of children who mowed and raked and crossed between them on their way to other places. Their limbs were high above climbing-and- swinging reach. The Front Yard was a buffer between the house and the passing road. It kept to itself.
Some trees, on the other hand, grew in solitude. An old maple stood a little east and south of the cistern, in front of the kitchen windows. It held a series of rope-and-plank swings. It shaded a sandpile. It held a bird feeder. It is close to 100 years old. Its the tree I love most. Another tree which grew in solitude at the edges of the yard is a hackberry tree. It grew along the fence between the truck garden and the field. An elderly neighbor woman, who lived down the road when I was a child, told my Dad that she loved to listen to the blackbirds singing in that hackberry tree at night, in the moonlight. I don't recall the blackbirds or the singing, at all. The hackberry tree was split almost in half during a storm, but it still grows.
And there were cedar trees. Two giant cedars, as old as Methusaleh, bordered our driveway when I was a child. But when our old, teensy bungalow was replaced with a newly-constructed, modern (plumbing) ranch house, a neighbor bought the bungalow. He moved it, on a flatbed wagon pulled by a tractor, down the road a few miles to his property and lived in it for many years. However, in the process of moving it out of the narrow driveway, we had to cut down one of the guardian cedars to allow the house to pass through. We remember and mourn the lost cedar to this day. Its surviving fellow seems to be immortal. It compelled Mom to compensate for its lost companion. In the following decades, she tirelessly dug up cedar saplings in the woods, and re-planted them around the edges of the farm yard. Now, the saplings are huge and fragrant, guarding pens and fields in ascending lines of growth stages. The surviving Methuselah cedar still stamds, aloof, at the end of the driveway.
There was another division of trees / time / space: an orchard. Pears and apples and cherries grew on the north side of the rock driveway. They always bore fruit, which was sometimes wormy and thrown to the cows and pigs. But careful salvaging allowed occasional batches of pies, or of apple butter, cooked up in a copper-lined pot in the back yard and preserved in Mom's home canning. The apple trees were kind. They were small enough and large enough to climb. I sat in them and watched down the road where my brothers were at school. I watched the field behind the orchard. I watched apple leaves and sunlight and heard the wind and nothing at all.
Places we live in never leave us. My house today is surrounded by trees and bushes who came to live with me, sometimes planted, sometimes left by passing birds or winds. I don't take for granted the shade, the sounds, the associated wildlife, the beauty of trees. Its nice to see organizations like the Ancient Tree Archive out of Northern Michigan, which preserve genetic material from the world's oldest beings: ancient trees. Its wonderful that so many people all over the world are planting trees and reforming ties. Lord of the Rings, with the walking, talking tree warriors, remembers ancient relations with trees. The plot of the cult movie Avatar features great trees which are the center of spiritual connection on a planet.
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