The Summer I Fell In Love

Once upon a summertime, my youngest cousins and I were looking for something to do. 

It was on a long stretch between June and July, too late for summer to be a novelty, too early to look forward to school supplies, too late for morning cartoons, but too early to catch lightning bugs.  We needed something to do.

We set our sights on a tree.
This tree would become the thing we would do.
And by “do,” I mean damage.  

I remember hanging on the branches, weighing them down until they broke, like pulling a shoulder out of a socket.  I remember shredding leaves like confetti and spending them like monopoly money.  This tree was one of many in our suburban life, and it felt like a victimless crime until my aunt realized why we were quiet.  

It’s always wise to suspect a troupe of young cousins who aren’t being loud.

She gathered us in a circle around the tree, calling us to task to “look at what we had done.”  I remember feeling surprised that she felt so strongly about it, that she seemed truly sad – and worse, that she seemed actually, legitimately mad at us.  

When we first moved there, out of the city and on to the end of the cul de sac, we were enamored with the forest.  There were more trees than we could count, surely more than anyone could count.  Mom declared a rule: “You can climb any tree you can reach.”  That rule was amended when my brother, master of loopholes, carried a kitchen chair out to the side yard. 

I remember when a small tornado tore through our small town.  It didn’t do any real damage, not the way those Tasmanian devils do to trailer parks, but this cyclone showed its power and strength, and I remember learning for the first time that fear and respect belong together. 

The storm ripped through the gulley of our backyard, and it knocked down this tree that was as wide as it was tall.  For the first time, the branches were climbable.  Even now, I remember the thrill of this jungle gym that had dropped into our backyard, a wooden grotto.

We played and imagined and created and explored for weeks, until the branches turned grey and dry.  My uncle came with a chainsaw, and he cut the logs into manageable pieces that could fit into the fireplace for winters to come.  To this day, the sound of a popping log causes a chain reaction of memories that feel like Ohio Christmases, hot cider, and snow days.

I remember my grandma teaching me what to do when trees are overgrown, how she would wander through her lower yard with her tree trimmers, cutting any branch that grazed her head.  If it touched her hair, she gave it a haircut.  

I remember our first autumn in Colorado, when I discovered Aspen trees, that they are social trees, that they propagate by root.  You can’t grow an aspen from seed in Colorado; the weather isn’t a good host.  You can only patiently court their friendship, and let them hold hands underground.  They find each other, need each other.  And dear God, those trees stage a whole pageant every year in their stunning yellow ball gowns.

This may seem like a hard right-turn, but I’ve learned of a few strange things happen when a person lands in her mid-forties.  

One: you forget how old you are.  It’s a phenomenon that is shockingly common, and I missed an entire year of being forty-four.  It only bothered me because I have learned that I especially enjoy even numbers, and here I had hung onto an odd one for twice as long.

But the other thing is you become aware of trees and birds.  There’s a meme that jokes about how one day you’re young and spry, and the next day you’re grabbing your binoculars and hearing yourself say, “Wait a minute — is that a yellow-breasted warbler in my very own backyard?  Well, I’ll be.”  All of a sudden, you collect bird feeders and squirrels become the enemy.

Sometime, in the years while I was forty-three, I heard an interview with Hugh Jackman, which I have hence listened to thrice.  (Studies indicate I will likely listen again.)  The legacy collective that is Jean Valjean, the Music Man, and Wolverine was asked to name a book he loves, recommends, and has given away.  Naturally, I always turn up the volume at a question like this one.  Don’t imagine that I didn’t take notes in my car.

Hugh said his book of choice is The Overstory, a marvelously layered novel of interwoven characters, and at the end of the book, you realize that the main characters were actually the trees.  He said, “Read this book, and I guarantee you’ll never see your backyard the same way again.”

I am here to tell you: Challenge accepted.  Hypothesis confirmed.

Today, I read this passage of a woman who stands in the shade of a prodigious forest of cedars.  She feels foolish talking to the trees, but she can’t help herself.  She says, 

“Long Life Maker.  I’m here.  Down here.  Thank you for the baskets and the boxes.  Thank you for the capes and hats and skirts.  Thank you for the cradles.  The beds.  The diapers.  Canoes.  Paddles, harpoons, and nets.  Poles, logs, posts.  The rot-proof shakes and shingles.  The kindling that will always light.”

Each new item is release and relief.  Finding no good reason to quit now, she lets the gratitude spill out.

“Thank you for the tools.  The chests.  The decking.  The clothes closets.  The paneling… I forget.  Thank you,” she says, following the ancient formula.  “For all these gifts that you have given.”

And still not knowing how to stop, she adds, “We’re sorry.  We didn’t know how hard it is for you to grow back.”

 

Dear Trees, I see you now, how your lives have been my overstory.

Even now, while I would normally do my writing over there, I am instead sitting right here, under a labyrinth of branches who have collectively reminded me that I like the word “dappled.” It’s like the words dapper and apple met for coffee and made something cute.

Once upon a summertime, I fell in love with trees.