General George Washington picnicked with the Marquis de Lafayette in the shade of that tree, and George Whitfield, notable preacher, preached to 3000 people beneath those branches in 1740. That may be what triggered the eventual demise of the tree. A tree, even a really tough old tree, can only take so much.
About the time World War II was ending, our parents bought a little, scrabby subsistence farm from two Swedish brothers, in Washington State: the Seastrom brothers, Pete and Swan. The end of the graveled driveway into the farm circled around a well-worn maple tree that had none of the magnificence of the Basking Ridge tree in New Jersey. Our maple tree did not defy gravity: it hung on. If I am not misled by age and nostalgia, it had obvious signs of brutal trimming.
I do not know, but I should be astonished if it is still there. Something like me. I am astonished, too. Still here. Glad to be here.
Trees have a special place in memory. There were two other trees on that same little farmstead that I still think about. The more delightful one was a small birch tree by the gate. It was not one of those enforced-triplet plantings gardeners used to like to plant. It stood lonesomely, more spreading than whip-like, probably reminding Pete and Swan of something they remembered from Sweden.
The third--actually a group of trees--was a holly tree that Dad had brought home from a neighbor's yard because they were tired of dealing with prickliness. Dad had, absurdly trimmed off the lower branches, probably to make it easier to coax them into their new neighborhood; possibly because he wanted to be the first to display a holly topiary. Likely not. Just a bad idea.
It is hard to love a holly tree up close and personal; something like having a porcupine for a pet.
When I lived in northeast Iowa, years later, for years-and-years, our wonderful, old Queen Anne house shared a large bur oak with Bert Lennon, planted precisely on our property lines. A later owner of that house once decided to cut that oak down, and started by lopping off lower branches. They irritated him. Oak trees produce prodigious branches, wheelbarrow loads of acorns, and truckloads of autumn leaves on the lawn.
I bolted out the front door, bellowing, insisting that the tree was as much mine as his, and that it was not coming down. It stayed up. It continued to produce acorns, and little oak trees in the flower beds. I transplanted one, something like an heir to the tradition, to the other side of the yard, between us and Wilma Slaughter. It is still there, producing its own offspring and brown blanket of leaves.
Several of the descendents of that older oak are growing out on the land where I built a log house. Some were deliberate. Some hid in the root balls of the spirea bushes Wilma asked me to remove from around her front porch, which I thought should have a chance to live down the side the the long, curved drive at our log house. And they do, gently coloring each springtime.
Maybe, some long time to come. . . .
Comments
Post a Comment