Spring’s child

By TED ROBERTS, the SCRIBBLER ON THE ROOF

“Poems are made by fools like me,

but only G-d can make a tree.”

— Joyce Kilmer

I admired her for months in a neighboring yard, but she never paid any attention to me. How could She? She was a wide-spreading Catalpa tree that filled up the whole front yard. Her business was with nature, not gawky spectators. I’m sure she wouldn’t miss one of her baby trees that grew in her shadow. There were so many. The seeds had all fallen around the base of the tree where they fought for light and nutrients. He, the Creator, has not used his magic of the Maple seed wherein the wind blows the winged seeds so they could fly far away from the competitive ground beneath the mother tree. What a great idea!

I had been watching the mama tree for many months. And like I say, I had admired her for many months. She proudly held up her leafy arms as to provide shade for man and beast and she was a super condo to many families of squirrels. Weary birds by the dozens rested in her arms. A magnificent tree. If there were a tree guarding the gates of Eden, it would be like this.

One day, as I drove home I could resist temptation no longer. I stopped and parked in her yard, strengthened by my admiration of this living, green replica of the Statue of Liberty. Welcome, she seemed to say.

I marched up to the front door and introduced myself to the owner (as though there could be any owner beside He who made humanity and trees and He already knew me). I stressed my credentials as a solid citizen of Huntsville, a prompt payer of city tree tax, and a lover and caregiver to trees. I pointed out that I had a spacious, sunny yard made from the kind of soil that Catalpa trees craved. I bragged that not a single tree had ever filed a complaint against me. And not one tree had ever died in my sunshiny yard. And most telling, not one tree ever punished me by falling on the house.

Then I struck home. “Mam, would you mind if I dug up one of the baby trees that are sprinkled around the yard – just one, mam – one of the smaller ones will do nicely.”

She must have been impressed by my panting desire and the fact that I was a tree lover. “Certainly,” she said. “Just get yourself a spade and a bucket and help yourself.”

I was back in twenty minutes with a spade in one hand and a bucket in the other.   I dug up a huge clump of earth around the seedling I’d selected after exploring a couple dozen trees. She was a beauty – just like her mama. As I dug I looked nervously over my shoulder to make sure mama didn’t care, even though the other trees, a pale Maple and a middle-aged Oak looked on jealously. She seemed at peace except for one time when the wind ruffled her leaves. The wind shrieked and moaned and she made a long, whimpering sound. I put down the shovel and she stopped. But soon I was back at work and before mama Catalpa, the tree’s ex-owner, or the Creator of trees and birds and squirrels and us could change their minds, me and the bucketed baby Catalpa were in the car.

Once home, I repeated the process – only backward.

Now the test began. How would the new creature in my backyard prevail against the suns of summer and the icy winds of winter without the shelter of mama Catalpa? Would she be homesick all alone in her new home? Only time will tell. My yard was only a block away so, of course, they could still talk via the wind. Catalpa trees know how to do that, but they’d never see each other again. I still pass mama every morning on the way to work. I know she’d be proud of her young one who is now 30 feet tall and provides housing to three squirrels and resting places for weary birds. I don’t suppose a picture will help.

Before you cut down that tree by the house remember what the poet said. “Poems are made by fools like me, but only G-d can make a tree.”