Trees and Stories

"In the end, we'll all become stories." -  written by Margaret Atwood.

  "... but it is up to us whether that story is unremarkable, or, because we touched someone's life, unforgettable." -  written by a dusty old baker aka Joe DeRozier. 

Let's talk about trees.

There's always a tree for me. When I was really little, there was a hollowed out place inside Mom's biggest lilac bush that was just big enough for me to climb into with my doll and ... well, likely pout. I am the youngest, which I could write a whole book on, helped by all my friends who are youngests and would know just exactly what I was talking about. But anyway, it was a silent place where I wasn't in anybody's way and no one told me I was too, young, too old, or spoiled rotten.

A tree of heaven was in the side yard ... tall and skinny with ferny foliage. My brother Tom planted it, although I don't know when. We all called it Tom's Tree and it stood between the red rose bush and a cluster of white daisies. I have no idea when it was cut down--presumably because it was one of those things that is an invasive plant--but I have a sense of grief about it. He planted an elm years later, and it's gone, too. The trees left empty places on the tapestry of my life. So did losing Tom.

The boxelder tree in the backyard, the one on the west side, had the perfect limbs for both rope swings and tire swings. My brother Dan and I would swing at each other and he would reach out for the rope of whatever swing I was on and we would tangle up. It's one of those "you had to be there" things, but it was hilarious. Remembering it makes my eyes sting a little. I miss Dan.

My sister would walk past the tree on the way to her rock, where she would sit until life became manageable again. Her daughters swung on the rope swings.

That tree also had a perfect intersection two thirds of the way up. (It was actually a crotch in the tree, but in those days, you couldn't have paid me enough to make me say that word, so intersection it is.) Mom was always pretty intent on getting me out of the house when all I really wanted to do was stay in and read. When I lost the battle, I went outside, climbed to the cradling intersection of the tree, and read. In retrospect, I think maybe I won the war. I also think maybe that was her intent.

Speaking of Mom, she loved that a tall tree lent shelter to the grave of the child they lost before I was born. The tree isn't there anymore, although I look for it every time we drive past the cemetery. I believe that Mom is with the little girl who died and the three who have passed since, so maybe she doesn't need the tree anymore.

When I was still in school, the trees were all taken down on our road in the interest of widening it, and it affected that stretch of 1500 in the same way taking them down on 16 in Denver did a few years ago. The emotional map was changed. Lessened. Although I still remember the apple tree and the hickory tree and the tree that was perfectly egg-shaped. I remember the buckeye trees in the fence row, too, and still carry one of the smooth dark nuts in my purse.

We have the maple tree we planted the year our first granddaughter was born; the walnut trees that look as if they can't last another year, but they do; and one of the tall pines we planted because we liked them so much.

But we lost the cottonwood in our side yard in 2024. It survived I don't know how many lightning strikes and was home to a huge number of birds. The tree used to be the soundstage to a cacophony of birdsong and a playground for squirrels leaping from limb to limb. Rabbits ran around below it and the cats braved the first ten feet or so of the trunk before turning mid-climb and going back down.

Most of these trees that have lent shade and shelter and memories are gone. I'm not exactly sad when I think of them. It's like thinking about family members I've lost, of the swings we made from used binder twine braided into thick rope, of the prettiness they gave to roadsides.

Trees cushion that tapestry I mentioned. They give it color and depth. They and the people we've lost don't really leave empty places, do they? They're still there in our memories, we're still reminded of them by our senses, our lives and our hearts remain changed where they touched.

I've learned a lot from Joe DeRozier. I imagine nearly everyone who knows him has. And he has learned at the same time. That's one of the things we do for people, isn't it? We don't have to understand each other. We don't have to share or even respect each other's beliefs, only to listen and try to do no harm. But we need to share swings and maybe give a push when needed. But gently. Gently.

I'm not sure how to explain my attachment to trees. Maybe it's because they're beautiful no matter what season it is and they grow all by themselves tended with little beyond benign neglect. (Not talking about fruit trees, because I'm pretty sure I've killed a few of them.) Or maybe it's because they feel like hopeful things to me and I need that on a day-to-day basis. I imagine you do, too.

Have a great week. Stop by and have a DeRozier's doughnut. Be nice to somebody.