Probably everyone has a story they could tell about a tree. The first time they climbed a tree, the time they fell out of one, or about rescuing Fluffy from the uppermost branches of the tallest one in their yard. My story, on the other hand, isn’t about bravery or heroics, but a relationship.
In 1942, my family moved to a small Texas town, one of many situated near the Houston ship channel. Along with thousands of men and woman from all over the country who wanted to help in the war effort, my father took a job at Todd Shipyard. Row after row of houses, built of not much more than cardboard and flour-and-water paste, appeared overnight.
Our house, the first and only one my parents ever owned, with two bedrooms, one bath, and a single-car garage, stood grassless and treeless on an oyster shell paved street. It distinguished itself from all the rest by having a coop and a small fenced-in area for six chickens and one feisty rooster.
Shortly after moving into our new house, my folks planted one lone tree in the back yard. Because they planted it on my birthday, they always referred to it as “Carol’s tree.” I was given the responsibility of keeping the weeds pulled away from it and seeing it got lots of water.
Since Chinese tallows are fast-growing, it wasn’t long before the tree was strong enough to support the weight of a ten-year old tomboy. It was about then that I began using my tree as a confidant. I told it all my secrets, shared my childhood fears and frustrations, and later its full, green foliage became an excellent hiding place to escape the dreaded nightly chore of washing dishes.
Even after I went away to college, visits to my tree continued whenever I was home for holidays and spring break. On one of these occasions, Dad told me the tree had been struck by lightning. Although its topmost branches were gone, my favorite perch was still intact.
Some years later, I walked out into the backyard, barefoot as usual, through the cool, damp grass, to see my tree for what would be the last time. With both my parents gone, the house had been sold and I was there to make sure everything was in order for the new owners. Saying goodbye to my tree was, in a way, also letting go of my childhood.
I felt the tree’s familiar smooth bark as I placed my right foot in the lowest crook and swung onto the horizontal limb where I’d sat so many times before. Funny, it wasn’t nearly so far to the ground as I’d remembered. I stayed there awhile, leaned my head
against its strong trunk, then said my goodbyes. I’m sure that with the rustle of its leaves that spring morning, it was saying goodbye to me too.
