Good question, I thought, considering that the Writer's Trees in our yard have been pestering me so much lately. Just this morning, they asked to see the revisions to the first chapter of my memoir, as promised at the close of last week's posting. "You'll have it by the end of the day," I assured them, as I briskly headed out the door for my morning walk. Passing by a black plastic pot containing the soon-to-be newest member of their community, I remembered my conversation with our four-year-old grandson.
"Trees are pretty with all their colorful leaves. They give us shade when it's hot and. . ."
"They're really big!" Luke added to the beginning of my Arbor Day Speech for Pre-Schoolers.
He and his two-year-old brother, Nate, were spending the day with me, and our first stop was at Laurel Park in Conway, where blue and green balloons, a couple of bouncy castles, hot dog stands and pots of tree saplings ready for adoption filled the green space. We picked up my mother on the way, an active member of the Faulkner County Master Gardeners, so these little guys were getting a double dose of Nature Appreciation from women who'd rather be digging in the dirt than shopping. (Perhaps a slight exaggeration since my mother can still out-shop, out-last and out-bargain hunt women 60 years her junior.)
Telling Luke and Nate that we were going to a Tree Party, instead of an Arbor Day event,* we checked out the bouncy castles, which were too scary, the Arbor artwork, which was too boring, and the selection of baby trees, which was "just right." Luke handed the lady in charge of adoptions our pink ticket; she stamped both boys' hands with green smiley faces, and said, "Pick any tree you want and be sure to take good care of it."
Being typical male shoppers, and in no way resembling their great-grandmother's disposition to spend an hour selecting just the right item, these young men found the perfect tree in 3 seconds flat. "That one, that one!" they shouted pointing to a young oak patiently waiting for the right owner to take him home. "I can pick it up," Luke announced, bending over, grabbing the pot, and immediately turning to me and saying, in a slightly strained voice, "Here, Grandmom, you can carry it."
Luke returned today to help me plant it. Last night's rain softened the ground enough for my spade and Luke's more stylish purple shovel to carve out a sufficiently deep hole in the rocky, dusty soil.
I mixed a gallon of water with root stimulator and poured it in the hole, creating a soupy brown spa for the tree, who was eager to break free of his plastic home. Luke gently picked up the skinny trunk and placed the roots in the muddy water. We scooped in handfuls of rich potting soil and smoothed over the surface. We had both planted our first tree!
The Writer's Trees have already taken charge of their young friend's orientation to the yard, giving him way too much information about the history of the place, offering advice that probably goes in one leaf and out the other, yet calmly whispering bedtime stories to calm his homesickness as the sun disappears, taking the comforting light with it.
Why do I like trees so much, Luke? They teach me lessons, lessons I hope to pass on to you, Nate, your sister, Anna, and cousin, Ruby. Trees are wise, if we take time to listen, and giving advice is one of their favorite pastimes.
Here are a few lines from one of my favorite poems, "Advice From a Tree," by Ilan Shamir. . .
Stand Tall and Proud
Sink your roots deeply into the Earth
Reflect the light of your true nature
Remember your place among all living things
Drink plenty of water
Enjoy the view!
*"Conway Arkansas Celebrates Arbor Day in Fall: Best Time to Plant Trees," by Paula Myers.
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