“Bed is too small for my tiredness. Give me a hilltop with trees. Tuck a cloud up under my head. Lord, blow the moon out, please.”
Whenever my sisters come to visit, our conversation includes trees we have known and loved. They both live in houses with bedrooms on the first floor, so they like the fact that sleeping in our guest room feels like sleeping in a tree house. How they love our tall, big backyard trees.
We all grew up tree lovers. And yes, sometimes tree huggers. Trees were our friends when we played outside. We were born to climb trees. We slept under trees on the screened back porch. We listened to the merry little breezes and thunder as it rumbled and ruffled the leaves of our trees.
We bonded with trees. We chewed the leaves. We sipped sap. We called our trees by name. Not those fancy Latin names. We all have those friends; those connoisseurs of conifers, garden gurus, botanical wizards who can pick a flower or sniff a branch and recite name-category-species verbatim.
We know our trees by name, usually a nickname. Peterson’s tree. The cigar tree. Wormy mulberry tree. The big tree. Our swing tree. The old pear tree.
We grew up in trees. The weeping willow on First Street was our haven of heaven. Our first choice for books and lemonade on a hot July afternoon. Two stately black walnut trees supported Dad’s old navy hammock where we spent our summer days swinging dolls and each other.
The red maple trees of our front yard were natural boundaries for neighborhood games of touch football, red rover, or New Orleans. “Here we come. Where are you from? New Orleans. What’s your trade? Show us something if you’re not afraid.” Our initials are …! Then the gestures and squealing and chasing began.
Trees provided shelter, shade, flowers, and fruit. Trees were our entertainment. Our gymnasium. Our fairyland.
Depending on the season, we would pyramid pine cones into troll houses or we raced twirly whirly maple seeds. Acorns were fashioned into dolls. We glittered sweet gum balls to use as Christmas ornaments.
We knew when spring arrived. The apricot tree in the alley burst into pale pink blossoms. The catalpa tree put on her frilly gown before her cigar seeds appeared. We agreed with the bees – the locust trees were the sweetest trees in town. There is no way to describe the dizzy delight of that cloying syrup scent which lingered in our nostrils as we strolled beneath branches clustered with white raindrop blossoms.
Our Kansas trees were ordinary trees. We learned later in life about exotic trees. Those rootbound bonsai creations which annoyed our senses. We equated them to foot binding. As we traveled on family vacations we met the trees of forests, deserts, and mountaintops. Sequoia. Redwood. Eucalyptus. Mimosa and Magnolia began creeping into our vocabulary. Those trees never became a part of us. They were the pompous props on nature’s stage. Only our Kansas trees remained our steadfast friends.
Here in Topeka I am surrounded by trees. The first thing I said to our Realtor showing us homes when we moved to town were these words … “Show me a house with trees. I cannot live without trees.”
Give me a bedroom in the treetops. Let me pick the first fruits of summer. Spread a pine needle carpet for my feet. Let blossoms billow upon my hair. Then in memory of me … please … plant a tree.
Treetop snack – chocolate peanut squares
1 1/2 cups graham cracker crumbs, 1/2 cup melted butter, 1 1/2 cup peanut butter, 1 pound powdered sugar.
Topping: 1/4 cup butter, 1 cup chocolate chips.
Melt the peanut butter and the 1/2 cup butter in a small pan. Mix in the crumbs and the powdered sugar. Press into a 9-by-9-inch pan. Melt the 1/4 cup butter and chocolate chips and spread on top. Chill. Cut in squares to serve.
