December – Advent
Rooted securely in my mind since childhood is the maple I planted and nurtured from seed to sapling to tree in our front yard in Easton, Maryland. Up until we moved from the Eastern Shore when I was in sixth grade, that tree served as the background for what would become many of my formative memories – a favorite nesting place to read, a live scene on the set of our neighborhood skits, a second base in kickball games, a place to gather with friends to have serious pre-teen talks about growing up. No matter how many times I have moved to new states and countries, knowing that tree was there has been the foundation of my definition of “home.”
My tree is gone.
We recently had the opportunity to spend a weekend in St. Michael’s, a picture-perfect bayside town located less than a half an hour from Easton. As we drove along Route 50, my husband responded warily when I asked him to turn left at an upcoming intersection. He has this way of raising an eyebrow when I ignore the GPS and assume I know where I am going. (I call it exploring; he calls it getting lost.)
We turned onto Dutchman’s Lane, made a right at the next street, and pulled into the driveway of one of our neighbors who I knew still lived next door to our former house. While it seemed much smaller than what I remembered, our two-story Cape Cod looked beautiful. Current owners had added shutters and a rich coat of blue paint. Trimmed shrubs and summer’s faded marigolds filled the front garden – vestiges of our original landscaping. I remember the lingering smell of those pungent blossoms that our father assigned us to pluck from their stems once they had lost their golden vigor. That non-allowanced yard duty was at least a little better than picking mushrooms from the backyard that would sprout overnight after a humid rain.
I looked up into the two dormer windows on the second floor and pictured shadows of my sisters and I playing in our shared rooms. How many days did I spend at my built-in desk, writing and drawing and sometimes doing homework as I daydreamed while peering out of those very same windows? I remembered my turtle, Mr. Sassafras, who lived for a while in a terrarium I kept on my desk along with various creeping charlie ivies, spider plants and other “stuff” I collected back then. I imagined the breeze that would flutter the sheer curtains bringing a welcome breath of cool air into our room as we talked and tried to settle ourselves to sleep after heated summer evenings of playing marbles and catching fireflies.
My sisters and my parents occasionally have had the opportunity to visit friends in the old neighborhood. Through photos, I saw my tree grow from its (and my adolescence) into maturity, branches reaching higher than our house, its trunk thickening almost humanlike over the years. But now, my tree is gone, a bald round patch in the grass the only sign it ever existed in the first place.
My husband stayed in the car as I walked up to our neighbor’s house and knocked on the front door, something I had done probably hundreds of times in years past when I would ask if my best friend could come out and play. I had already planned to meet her and her daughter for lunch, but I thought it would be fun to surprise her and offer a ride instead. Nearly 50 years older than we were back then, our hug transcended time. The lines between past and future dissolved. We are moms and daughters, neighbors and friends.
“What happened to my tree?”
“I think it got sick. They had to cut it down this past year. You can see how big that spot in the grass is. ”
“I am so sad.”
All I could think of as we got into the car to go to lunch was that maybe the grass would not ever cover the spot where my tree lived. Could there still exist a tiny seed of life that might push itself up through the ground again? Probably not, but that’s where my defiant thoughts went anyway.
Just a few days after we got home from our weekend trip, I chanced upon this Bible verse from 2 Corinthians Ch. 4:16, 18. Honestly, it startled me out of the contemplative funk I had been fighting about the passage of time, life, death…and trees. “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day…for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” Maybe a little girl lives in our old house now. Maybe she will find a whirlybird helicopter pod one day and ask her dad if she can plant it. She will point to a perfect spot in the front yard, bury the seed, and water it every day knowing intuitively that if she believes, it will grow.