Eliza Hodgkins 1812
10-23-2007, 01:19 PM
Forgive the pun, but I'm about to get sappy about a tree.
When I was two, my parents moved us to Northridge, into the house where I have lived on and off over the past twenty-nine years. Our home is a tract house, one of four basic model designs. Over the years people have left behind their hand prints: remodeling here, adding on there, landscaping, etc. It’s a tree lined street with lots of shade. It’s the sort of suburban haven that teenagers despise, though many will grow up only to find themselves lured back in, unable to escape the nuclear make-up of the typical American family.
Our house includes the add-on rooms, and the décor has changed over the years to match the trendy interior designs of the 70s, 80s and 90s. It’s still rather 90s since the family lacked the funds to continually upgrade; change occurs but in much smaller increments these days.
The one constant – it’s best feature - was a giant tree that was planted near the driveway. Its branches formed a large and layered canopy of verdant foliage. I never once bothered to look up its name. It had a mammoth trunk that split off into two parts, and there was a seat at the base where I would sit and others would use as a footstep to higher climbs. As I got older I used to sit outside and read in its shade, or just lie looking up feeling altogether happy “right where I am,” no matter what else was going on in the world or inside my anxiety addled mind. The tree was a solace. My head felt hollow and full of thoughts that would rattle around and defeat me, but when I relaxed in the presence of this particular tree, ideas would cohere and I’d feel a solid, real and present girl of sixteen. I felt right.
In college, my father called to let me know that a storm had rent the tree completely in two, leaving only one half left standing. I came home to find a half-life, but life all the same. It colored in spring and died in winter, still part of the rebirth cycle. The branches extended far enough to provide at least a pocket of shade, and though not quite as majestic as before, it still beautified the house; made us special. It was always, in my opinion, the prettiest tree in the neighborhood, even with roots that looked like a rib cracked heart patient.
This past weekend the Santa Anas drop-kicked what was left of this struggling giant. It crashed into the house and my brother’s old car at 3:00 am, and thankfully the house remained mostly undamaged. Not sure about the car. Yesterday the tree removers chopped its remains into bits. Some branches were left on the street for removal and what’s left now sits in the backyard: this winter’s fireplace special.
At my request my dad saved me a piece of the tree, and even some of the stump. A sad little Giving Tree stump, if the picture is any indication. So long, old friend. In the annals of time, it was but a sapling, and in my heart it will still color in spring.
Now what to do about the gaping pit in the front yard? We could build a mead hall around it. Dig to china. Create an underground gambling den. Wait to see if creatures from below emerge. Cover it with twigs and set a trap! Bury treasure. Fill it with water and host naked lady mud wrestling competitions.
If my parents don't make up their mind, I may go renegade and plant a lemon tree. Or run with the mud wrestling idea. We could put up a tent and sell tickets. Revenue!
When I was two, my parents moved us to Northridge, into the house where I have lived on and off over the past twenty-nine years. Our home is a tract house, one of four basic model designs. Over the years people have left behind their hand prints: remodeling here, adding on there, landscaping, etc. It’s a tree lined street with lots of shade. It’s the sort of suburban haven that teenagers despise, though many will grow up only to find themselves lured back in, unable to escape the nuclear make-up of the typical American family.
Our house includes the add-on rooms, and the décor has changed over the years to match the trendy interior designs of the 70s, 80s and 90s. It’s still rather 90s since the family lacked the funds to continually upgrade; change occurs but in much smaller increments these days.
The one constant – it’s best feature - was a giant tree that was planted near the driveway. Its branches formed a large and layered canopy of verdant foliage. I never once bothered to look up its name. It had a mammoth trunk that split off into two parts, and there was a seat at the base where I would sit and others would use as a footstep to higher climbs. As I got older I used to sit outside and read in its shade, or just lie looking up feeling altogether happy “right where I am,” no matter what else was going on in the world or inside my anxiety addled mind. The tree was a solace. My head felt hollow and full of thoughts that would rattle around and defeat me, but when I relaxed in the presence of this particular tree, ideas would cohere and I’d feel a solid, real and present girl of sixteen. I felt right.
In college, my father called to let me know that a storm had rent the tree completely in two, leaving only one half left standing. I came home to find a half-life, but life all the same. It colored in spring and died in winter, still part of the rebirth cycle. The branches extended far enough to provide at least a pocket of shade, and though not quite as majestic as before, it still beautified the house; made us special. It was always, in my opinion, the prettiest tree in the neighborhood, even with roots that looked like a rib cracked heart patient.
This past weekend the Santa Anas drop-kicked what was left of this struggling giant. It crashed into the house and my brother’s old car at 3:00 am, and thankfully the house remained mostly undamaged. Not sure about the car. Yesterday the tree removers chopped its remains into bits. Some branches were left on the street for removal and what’s left now sits in the backyard: this winter’s fireplace special.
At my request my dad saved me a piece of the tree, and even some of the stump. A sad little Giving Tree stump, if the picture is any indication. So long, old friend. In the annals of time, it was but a sapling, and in my heart it will still color in spring.
Now what to do about the gaping pit in the front yard? We could build a mead hall around it. Dig to china. Create an underground gambling den. Wait to see if creatures from below emerge. Cover it with twigs and set a trap! Bury treasure. Fill it with water and host naked lady mud wrestling competitions.
If my parents don't make up their mind, I may go renegade and plant a lemon tree. Or run with the mud wrestling idea. We could put up a tent and sell tickets. Revenue!