We Have A Giving Tree

"To be without trees would, in the most literal way, to be without our roots."

Richard Mabey

 

This morning my 12-year-old son said, "This tree has been through a lot."

 It sits centered directly in front of our house next to the street. Likely it sat 50 or more years before we moved here.

We moved in when our boys were 3 and 4. At that age they couldn't be in the yard by themselves, especially not near the tree next to the street, so they were near me when they played out front.  We soon put a horse-shaped tire swing around one of the branches. We spent hours pushing these boys on the swing, while we met new neighbors walking by, and we talked with friends who paused as they saw us by the tree. Before we knew it, the boys had learned about traffic and staying out of the road, and I could watch them swing each other and try to climb the tree, while I sat on the nearby front porch. Time flew, and at the same time it felt like the days creeped very slowly. Soon enough my boys had friends swinging and climbing with them as they played without my supervision. I could be inside getting dinner or doing laundry, looking out the windows every few minutes to see if they were okay. Or I could just listen to their boy sounds to know whether I was needed outside.

There is a remnant of an image rubber stamped on the bark of the tree, after they grew bored playing with paper and stamps on the sidewalk. Later, they painted the swing a turquoise blue with leftovers from a can I had used to paint some furniture, and of course, this paint got all over the bark of the tree. 

For several years its leaves provided a welcome canopy over lemonade stands my two set up on hot summer days.  As our children continued to grow they didn't use the tire swing as much, but lots of other children paused there on the way to and from the neighborhood swimming pool, across the street. By ages 8 or 9 our boys would stand on top of the tire and swing standing up. 

They received many pocket knives over the years to do things that boys do, and naturally the tree was one of their first carving experiments. You can see their initials all over the smooth patchwork bark, some of the letters large and others sort of scabbed over.

At 9 and 10 they sat in the tree while we trained our golden retriever puppy to stay inside the borders of our yard.

It drops its leaves early -- mid August -- to remind us that summer is coming to an end, and that more time has elapsed. Some days we looked for noisy woodpeckers, and for the owl who hooted to us at night. We watched for the hawks that planned their attacks on the chickens next door. In winter the tree stands tall and dignified as snow piles up on its branches.  I tried several times to plant pretty perennials in reds and pinks around the trunk,. but this spring I see only a few scraggly blossoms.  Most got stomped on by the many children climbing and swinging while waiting for a turn to kick the soccer ball; the flowers were advertised as “hardy” but that designation was surely not meant for us.

I wonder if the tree watched, as I did from an upstairs window, for one of these many young visitors to complete a jump on their skateboards in the street. Ours hasn't been the best climbing tree, like the magnolia on the other side of the road, because it doesn't have a lot of low branches, but it certainly gave many the challenge. Miraculously, no broken bones occurred by any activities around the tree, though I fully expected this to happen, as part of their childhood experience. 

 As I sit in the office upstairs the big window looks right out at the tree and it is brightly lit with morning sun, as it is most days of the year.

Our boys are now almost 13 and 14 and as always, life continues to change. The “Sold” sign sits out front and we are moving on to new lives, each of us. I have felt bittersweet about this place and for a time thought this was my "forever home". I have loved being here, but many of the memories are also of sadness and frustration and disappointment, and it's easier for me to let go than to dwell on what cannot be. My feelings aside, I realize that this house will loom very large in the memories of my boys, since they spent most of their childhoods here. This house will mark a “Before” and “After”. As they look back, probably for the rest of their lives, this tree will occupy a lot of space in those memories, and hopefully be happy ones. 

Thank you, Giving Tree.