APRIL 26, 2023 – I’ve always been jarred by our cultural norm of breaking the conversational ice with a person in a non-business setting. “What do you do?” we ask, or if the person’s retired, “What did you do before retirement?” If the question elicits useful information, in most settings the answer provides only a sliver of the person’s full portrait. That was certainly the case with Dad.
Among his non-vocational interests was dendrology—or more precisely, his appreciation for the beauty and wonder of trees. Soon after his death a few days short of his 88th birthday, we planted in his memory, an autumn blaze maple sapling in our front yard. In the intervening 13 years, the sapling has grown into a mature shade tree.
After school earlier this week, our whimsical seven-year old granddaughter wanted to establish an “art station” next to the memorial maple. Initially, the curmudgeon in me stated the primary reason not to: moist earth. But a seven-year old mind is reflexively more positive than the mind of an ossified codger. “We could put down a blanket, Grandpa,” said Illiana.
“But then the blanket will get damp and dirty,” said the curmudgeon. “Why don’t you draw up on the front steps?”
“I want to be next to that tree,” she said. “We could put down a sheet of plastic like you have folded up in the garage.” Her sweet voice was more endearing than her insistence was nettlesome. If I’m a curmudgeon, I’m one with a heart. Moreover, I didn’t want to appear as old or lazy as I might actually be. Soon Illiana was happily drawing at her “art station” on a blanket over a sheet of plastic beside the maple.
Seated next to the little artist on the blanket, I basked in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. I couldn’t remember a time since planting the tree when I’d stood—let alone sat—next to it for more than a few seconds. My thoughts drifted back to the planting of the now sturdy tree when it was a spindly sapling.
Present on that occasion were a number of family members. After the tree was in the ground, I pulled out a piece of paper on which I’d composed a poem, and recited it. Afterward, the paper was folded into my pocket and later lost.
While Illiana turned out a drawing, I wondered what had become of that poem. I repaired to the house to retrieve my laptop, on which surely I’d saved the poem. Back outside, I opened the desktop folder labeled, Miscellaneous Writing and scrolled down the list of files. There it was: In Memoriam of a Man who Loved Trees.
After explaining to Illiana what had inspired the planting of the memorial maple, I read her the poem:
When your children were just above your knees,
We knew how much you loved the trees.
By name you called them, as you pointed out their grandeur,
Admiring a fine, far-off verdant crown
Or touching bark and gazing up at spreading boughs.
Each tree became your lasting friend,
And of the many trees that you saved from the sawyer’s blade,
The mightiest is the age-old Anoka oak that still stands because you lived.
Now as we plant this maple sapling, part sweet, part silver,
May we remember you, patriarch past, and your love for trees.
May this tree’s summer lushness remind us of the fullness of your life.
May its leaves ablaze in fall remind us of your brilliance.
And when bare this tree stands tall in winter’s wind,
May we remember your stalwart stance in all that mattered.
As in spring this tree grows leaves anew,
Thus forever, will we remember you.
“That was really nice, Grandpa,” Illiana said cheerfully.
Coincidentally, while I was reciting the poem outside, Beth was inside, exploring for the first time in eons, the secret compartment of an antique kitchen cabinet. Among the treasures harvested was an old photo of Dad and one of his grandchildren against a backdrop of . . . trees.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
