By Joe Rector
Today is the last day I can do any meaningful work for the next month. Tomorrow, I will have cataract surgery on my left eye, and after two weeks of taking care of that side, I’ll have the other repaired. For the most part, the month of January is a wash.
On this day of work, I walked down to my neighbor’s house, which at one time was our family’s home. An evergreen tree of some kind sits where the old well house and grape arbor once were located. Mother planted that tree after my children were born. The rumor is that she stopped along the roadside inside the state park and quickly scooped up the straggly tree before some vehicle ended its life. Mother always had a “green thumb,” and she lovingly put the tree in its new home, tamped the dirt solidly around it, and sprinkled her magic powers over it.
That once weakling tree now soars over the roof of the house. Many of the limbs are the size of medium trees, and they have bowed to the ground, where they are held tight to the ground by vines. Jim brought his saw and cut the underbrush from the tree. In no time at all, we’d cleared under that evergreen, and now our neighbor June can sit under the tree in the shade and enjoy a breeze that fights back the summer heat this year.
That former homeplace had several big trees. One straddled the property line at the driveway. My older brother and other boys in the neighborhood shimmied up that maple when we played outside. I never sat on the main limb in that tree for a couple of reasons. One, I was too heavy for my skinny arms and legs to hoist off the ground. Second, I have a fear of heights and always imagined myself falling out of that tree.
A water maple used to sit at the back corner of the house, but the limb-dropping tree grew itself out of space. That’s the tree where Jim and I played stretch with a knife. We both reached for it at the end of the game, and Jim got it, and I got a nasty gash on my right wrist. The doctor said the cut came close to severing the tendons to my fourth and fifth fingers.
Two smaller maples were planted at the ends of the front yard. Jim and I spent hours under those trees as we threw softballs and then baseballs. It took years before the bare spots once again had grass.
All of the trees that were so special in our childhood are gone now. Some died; others were cut because they were dotted with diseased places. I live behind the old homeplace. Many of them were saplings when we were boys. Now, they resemble those monster trees I remember so well. No children climb, but plenty of squirrels call them home.
Trees have always awed me. I love the way they push out their limbs and make patterns against a blue sky, especially during winter when leaves don’t hide their bones. Of course, those same leaves that I always dread cleaning up in the fall offer plenty of comforting shade during the hot summer months.
When my eyes have healed, I will complete the cleanup around the tree. I hope my neighbor approves of the cutting that Jim and I did. I enjoyed the work. I’m tired and sore from the day, but I’m satisfied.
