Post by storyweaver on Mar 15, 2009 19:08:55 GMT -5
Okay Mags, I found that story you always talk about. I posted it for you. I still think you are crazy to think it is all that great but here ya go. ;D
The Spruce and Me
It's funny how memories invade the mind, tiny flashes of yesterday, insignificant, but profound. They seem to swallow up moments of reality and spin 'the now' into another realm, left behind, somewhere impervious to ordinary daily perception.
This is the phenomenon I experienced today. I was simply sitting on the patio looking at the Chinese Elm that graces the corner of my patio pond, a beautiful tree even though its leaves have fallen and crusty-brown, cocoon-like seedpods still cling to it lending somewhat of an eerie, alien appearance. Suddenly I was transported (without the aid of Scotty and the Starship Enterprise) to a moment of experience I had forgotten existed.
I stood beneath a magnificent Blue Spruce which colored well over a hundred feet of sky in the well-groomed backyard of my Grandmother's house. The lower limbs had been trimmed over the years of its lifetime, giving the tree an umbrella like appearance. For a child of six years old, this area was a natural playhouse of discovery. A place away from the adults who not only could not stand beneath the limbs but couldn't imagine why I would want to play there. I could not imagine why they would not.
To my child's mind, it was a perfectly secluded, secret area, positioned in the corner of the fenced yard next to my Grandfather's wood-cabin-shed that bore a sign proclaiming "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Grandpa had a dry sense of humor.
There was narrow, decorative, cement border that outlined the curve of the yard and contained the flower gardens and trees that lined the perimeter of the lawn. Here, in front of the Spruce, the border extended out in a circular shape to accommodate the large circumference of the tree and meet with the sidewalk leading to the cabin. This circular contour contributed to the intrigue I felt for the ground beneath the tree. It seemed as if the border was a barrier between me and the outside world.
Beneath the tree, the ground was black with moist, fertile soil hidden beneath a bed of thick, fragrant mulch composed of pine needles and cones in various stages of decay. The shade provided by the tree was cool and refreshing on a hot summer's day. Slight shimmers of sunlight filtered through the branches and highlighted patches of the ground. I pretended that these specks of light were fallen stars and would make great effort not to step on them.
I would smooth an area clear of the tree fragments with my hands, exposing the earth and creating a 'poke-free' place to sit. I would then hunt for "perfect pine cones," which I thought were beautiful and valuable, and then, I'd pile my bounty next to my cozy sitting spot.
This particular day, the family had gathered for the Fourth of July celebration. Across the yard, on the patio, Grandpa was barbequing chicken and violently waving a large spatula at the dense clouds of smoke pouring forth from the grill. He was muttering something that I am sure I was not supposed to hear. The other adults present were involved in activities conducive to preparing a large meal for the many hungry family members that would soon arrive.
I, of course, was beneath the tree, even though my mother had expressed the explicit desire that I stay clean and presentable. With her not so gentle request in mind, I settled beneath the tree without clearing a spot to sit. I did not want to get my sun-dress dirty so I moved closer in, next to the trunk of the tree. Here there were fewer pine needles, and therefore, a more comfortable area for my bare legs. I sat for several minutes, bored; it was not very much fun, considering the dirt and pine cones were off limits.
Suddenly the bark of the tree captured my attention. My six-year-old curiosity grabbed hold of my hand and guided it to strip the bark free of the tree. I only wanted to see what the tree looked like under the bark--was it smooth, was it green, or brown? I had to find out. As my flexible little fingers tore too deep a portion off the tree, a sticky amber colored substance began to rise and seep from the tree. The stuff stuck to my fingers. I rubbed them against my thumb in an attempt to roll the sticky goop from my skin. My fingers turned brown.
"Yuck," I thought out loud, "Mom is going to kill me!"
I stood as quickly as I could and ran to the grass just beyond the border. I wiped my fingers in a desperate motion to free them of the nasty gick. They did not get clean; instead, they collected green on top of the brown goo.
"Oh man," I thought aloud again, "what is that stuff?"
I turned my attention back to the tree, forgetting about the assault to my fingers. I walked back under the branches to the trunk, intent on inspecting this strange stuff that would not wipe clean.
The substance was still there--little round pearls that sparkled in a patch of sunlight, which breached the branches and lit the trunk of the tree. There were four or five little beads. They were kind of pretty, and they looked like little yellow tears.
"TEARS!" the thought struck me hard. "I made the tree cry!"
Again, I was on my feet, jumped over the border and began running with panicked little feet toward my Grandpa.
"Grandpa, Grandpa!" I yelled as I breathlessly approached him.
"Gina Marie, Gina Marie!" he jokingly mocked me in response.
"Do...do?" I stuttered between gulps of breath.
"Do, what?" he answered raising an eyebrow in curiosity.
I took a deep breath then released the air all at once with the words "Do trees cry?" tumbling out on top of the exhale.
He squeezed his bushy eyebrows together and looked at me very closely "Why?" he asked in a concerned tone.
I suddenly realized that I could be in trouble. If indeed, I did make that tree cry, Grandpa would not be too happy. It was his favorite tree, too. I gathered my wits and said in an innocent tone "Oh, no reason...was just wondering," then turned in a full run toward my big brother, who was sitting on the opposite end of the patio, leaving my grandfather wearing a baffled expression.
"Billy," I whispered loudly, "I want to show you something." I grabbed his arm and pulled him out of his chair.
"What do you want, Peewee?" he stood with my prompting and then pulled his hand free of mine, "let go!" he said, irritated with my persistence.
"Come here," I said, moving toward the tree with him in-tow "the tree is crying and I..."
"What!" he said cutting me off in mid-sentence, "trees can't cry, dummy!"
We approached the tree, Billy following me under the branches, ducking (he was much taller than I) and then squatting as I did in front of the trunk.
"Then, what is that?" I said pointing to the shiny tear drops on the wounded portion of the tree.
Billy laughed and pushed my shoulder with a playful but strong nudge that knocked me off my squat. "That's sap, you idiot!" he said.
"Sap?" I asked, with wide eyes.
"Yeah, it's like the tree's blood; all trees have it." He laughed again, then he moved out from under the tree, straightened his spine and walked away shaking his head.
"BLOOD!" I thought, "that's worse than tears...I made the tree bleed!" My little six-year-old mind raced...."what do I do?" I thought that perhaps I should go get Grandpa, but no, I thought better of that idea. I was sure I would get in trouble for making the tree bleed. I had to find a solution on my own.
"A band aid!" I thought. It was a perfect solution; after all, that's how Mom fixed me when I was bleeding. Grandma would have one.
I went to Grandma and asked for a band-aid. She wanted to know if I was hurt. I told her it was my doll that had the boo-boo. Grandma looked at me strangely. She knew I was much more mature than that; even though I was only six, I didn't play 'that' way and besides, I didn't even have a doll with me. She didn't bother to question me further; she just got a band aid and gave it to me. I left another Grandparent with a baffled expression and headed back to the tree.
The band aid, of course, would not stick. I simply succeeded in spreading the sap around and completely dousing my fingers in it. Now, not only was the tree still bleeding, I was dirtier! I leaned my head against the tree and started to cry.
Grandma's curiosity must have then gotten the best of her because just a few minutes after I began to cry, I heard her voice behind me.
"Gina, honey, why are you crying, and what are you doing under here?"
I looked up and over my shoulder to see a very uncomfortable Grandma gingerly squatting behind me. Grandma was not the type to crawl under a tree; I was very surprised and somewhat scared.
Then came the gushes of tears and stuttered words "Oh Grandma, don't tell Grandpa... I just wanted too see... then I made the tree cry... but it wasn't crying. It was blood. Billy said so... I tried to fix it... see?" then I pointed to the gooey band-aid on the ground, "but it didn't work." I held up my soiled little hands. "Now I am all dirty and the tree...the tree it's still bleeding!" and I burst into uncontrollable sobs.
Grandma must have wanted to fall over with laughter; now that I think about the look on her face, she was extremely amused. She held her composure well. She knew that, to this little child, the situation was terribly traumatic.
"Okay," she said "calm down, we can fix this together."
"We can?" I said, wide eyed with renewed hope.
"Yes we can, but Grandma's old legs can't take much more of this. I will tell you how and you will have to do it on your own...Okay?"
"Okay!" I said leaping forward to hug her.
She moved back quickly almost falling off her squat and onto her bottom. "Your hands," she said "we'll have to clean you up after this so your mother doesn't kill us both!"
A few minutes later, Grandma brought me a small cup of water. She pretended to be very secretive about it and snuck up quietly.
"Here you go," she whispered, "now do as I said, and then come in the house and we'll clean you up."
"Okay," I whispered, acting as sly as my childish posture would allow.
I took the water and crawled under the tree, cleared an area of mulch to expose the soil beneath. I made a thick paste of mud with the water, just like Grandma instructed. I scooped up the mud with my fingers and smeared a wad of it over the wounded part of the tree trunk, then patted it to form a nice scab. Now it could heal. I was very proud of myself!
I found Grandma in the kitchen a few minutes later, being careful not to allow my mother to see the mess I had become. Grandma (still acting sneaky) brought me to the bathroom. We cleaned my muddy, sticky hands.
While Grandma brushed pieces of bark and pine needle out of my long brown hair, a thought crossed my mind that Grandma might think me a little strange because of my behavior today.
"Grandma," I asked "do you think I'm weird?"
"No, sweetie," she answered "I think you are special; you care. Don't ever lose that. Sometimes when people grow up they forget how to care, especially about the little things."
"But Grandma, the tree is a BIG thing!" I said, confused.
"Yes, I know, honey, it was a big, important thing to you. To someone else it would not be. To someone else it would just be a tree." She put the brush down and gently turned me, holding onto my shoulders, so she could look into my eyes. "You see Gina, the things that others don't understand, you do, naturally. Someday you will understand what I mean." She again turned my shoulders and gently nudged me toward the door. "Now, off with you and don't go back under that tree, understand?"
Yes, I do understand. Today, many years later, Grandma's words were fully realized. The little eccentricities I have always owned are indeed the very things that make me who I am. I have suffered because of my gentle side and those who would take advantage of it, but it is still there. I have not lost this special quality that so many others have never really owned. This invading memory brought me to realize that I am not weak, I simply care and THAT can't be a bad thing.
I would still, even today, make a mud scab to save a bleeding tree. That's who I am.
The Spruce and Me
It's funny how memories invade the mind, tiny flashes of yesterday, insignificant, but profound. They seem to swallow up moments of reality and spin 'the now' into another realm, left behind, somewhere impervious to ordinary daily perception.
This is the phenomenon I experienced today. I was simply sitting on the patio looking at the Chinese Elm that graces the corner of my patio pond, a beautiful tree even though its leaves have fallen and crusty-brown, cocoon-like seedpods still cling to it lending somewhat of an eerie, alien appearance. Suddenly I was transported (without the aid of Scotty and the Starship Enterprise) to a moment of experience I had forgotten existed.
I stood beneath a magnificent Blue Spruce which colored well over a hundred feet of sky in the well-groomed backyard of my Grandmother's house. The lower limbs had been trimmed over the years of its lifetime, giving the tree an umbrella like appearance. For a child of six years old, this area was a natural playhouse of discovery. A place away from the adults who not only could not stand beneath the limbs but couldn't imagine why I would want to play there. I could not imagine why they would not.
To my child's mind, it was a perfectly secluded, secret area, positioned in the corner of the fenced yard next to my Grandfather's wood-cabin-shed that bore a sign proclaiming "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Grandpa had a dry sense of humor.
There was narrow, decorative, cement border that outlined the curve of the yard and contained the flower gardens and trees that lined the perimeter of the lawn. Here, in front of the Spruce, the border extended out in a circular shape to accommodate the large circumference of the tree and meet with the sidewalk leading to the cabin. This circular contour contributed to the intrigue I felt for the ground beneath the tree. It seemed as if the border was a barrier between me and the outside world.
Beneath the tree, the ground was black with moist, fertile soil hidden beneath a bed of thick, fragrant mulch composed of pine needles and cones in various stages of decay. The shade provided by the tree was cool and refreshing on a hot summer's day. Slight shimmers of sunlight filtered through the branches and highlighted patches of the ground. I pretended that these specks of light were fallen stars and would make great effort not to step on them.
I would smooth an area clear of the tree fragments with my hands, exposing the earth and creating a 'poke-free' place to sit. I would then hunt for "perfect pine cones," which I thought were beautiful and valuable, and then, I'd pile my bounty next to my cozy sitting spot.
This particular day, the family had gathered for the Fourth of July celebration. Across the yard, on the patio, Grandpa was barbequing chicken and violently waving a large spatula at the dense clouds of smoke pouring forth from the grill. He was muttering something that I am sure I was not supposed to hear. The other adults present were involved in activities conducive to preparing a large meal for the many hungry family members that would soon arrive.
I, of course, was beneath the tree, even though my mother had expressed the explicit desire that I stay clean and presentable. With her not so gentle request in mind, I settled beneath the tree without clearing a spot to sit. I did not want to get my sun-dress dirty so I moved closer in, next to the trunk of the tree. Here there were fewer pine needles, and therefore, a more comfortable area for my bare legs. I sat for several minutes, bored; it was not very much fun, considering the dirt and pine cones were off limits.
Suddenly the bark of the tree captured my attention. My six-year-old curiosity grabbed hold of my hand and guided it to strip the bark free of the tree. I only wanted to see what the tree looked like under the bark--was it smooth, was it green, or brown? I had to find out. As my flexible little fingers tore too deep a portion off the tree, a sticky amber colored substance began to rise and seep from the tree. The stuff stuck to my fingers. I rubbed them against my thumb in an attempt to roll the sticky goop from my skin. My fingers turned brown.
"Yuck," I thought out loud, "Mom is going to kill me!"
I stood as quickly as I could and ran to the grass just beyond the border. I wiped my fingers in a desperate motion to free them of the nasty gick. They did not get clean; instead, they collected green on top of the brown goo.
"Oh man," I thought aloud again, "what is that stuff?"
I turned my attention back to the tree, forgetting about the assault to my fingers. I walked back under the branches to the trunk, intent on inspecting this strange stuff that would not wipe clean.
The substance was still there--little round pearls that sparkled in a patch of sunlight, which breached the branches and lit the trunk of the tree. There were four or five little beads. They were kind of pretty, and they looked like little yellow tears.
"TEARS!" the thought struck me hard. "I made the tree cry!"
Again, I was on my feet, jumped over the border and began running with panicked little feet toward my Grandpa.
"Grandpa, Grandpa!" I yelled as I breathlessly approached him.
"Gina Marie, Gina Marie!" he jokingly mocked me in response.
"Do...do?" I stuttered between gulps of breath.
"Do, what?" he answered raising an eyebrow in curiosity.
I took a deep breath then released the air all at once with the words "Do trees cry?" tumbling out on top of the exhale.
He squeezed his bushy eyebrows together and looked at me very closely "Why?" he asked in a concerned tone.
I suddenly realized that I could be in trouble. If indeed, I did make that tree cry, Grandpa would not be too happy. It was his favorite tree, too. I gathered my wits and said in an innocent tone "Oh, no reason...was just wondering," then turned in a full run toward my big brother, who was sitting on the opposite end of the patio, leaving my grandfather wearing a baffled expression.
"Billy," I whispered loudly, "I want to show you something." I grabbed his arm and pulled him out of his chair.
"What do you want, Peewee?" he stood with my prompting and then pulled his hand free of mine, "let go!" he said, irritated with my persistence.
"Come here," I said, moving toward the tree with him in-tow "the tree is crying and I..."
"What!" he said cutting me off in mid-sentence, "trees can't cry, dummy!"
We approached the tree, Billy following me under the branches, ducking (he was much taller than I) and then squatting as I did in front of the trunk.
"Then, what is that?" I said pointing to the shiny tear drops on the wounded portion of the tree.
Billy laughed and pushed my shoulder with a playful but strong nudge that knocked me off my squat. "That's sap, you idiot!" he said.
"Sap?" I asked, with wide eyes.
"Yeah, it's like the tree's blood; all trees have it." He laughed again, then he moved out from under the tree, straightened his spine and walked away shaking his head.
"BLOOD!" I thought, "that's worse than tears...I made the tree bleed!" My little six-year-old mind raced...."what do I do?" I thought that perhaps I should go get Grandpa, but no, I thought better of that idea. I was sure I would get in trouble for making the tree bleed. I had to find a solution on my own.
"A band aid!" I thought. It was a perfect solution; after all, that's how Mom fixed me when I was bleeding. Grandma would have one.
I went to Grandma and asked for a band-aid. She wanted to know if I was hurt. I told her it was my doll that had the boo-boo. Grandma looked at me strangely. She knew I was much more mature than that; even though I was only six, I didn't play 'that' way and besides, I didn't even have a doll with me. She didn't bother to question me further; she just got a band aid and gave it to me. I left another Grandparent with a baffled expression and headed back to the tree.
The band aid, of course, would not stick. I simply succeeded in spreading the sap around and completely dousing my fingers in it. Now, not only was the tree still bleeding, I was dirtier! I leaned my head against the tree and started to cry.
Grandma's curiosity must have then gotten the best of her because just a few minutes after I began to cry, I heard her voice behind me.
"Gina, honey, why are you crying, and what are you doing under here?"
I looked up and over my shoulder to see a very uncomfortable Grandma gingerly squatting behind me. Grandma was not the type to crawl under a tree; I was very surprised and somewhat scared.
Then came the gushes of tears and stuttered words "Oh Grandma, don't tell Grandpa... I just wanted too see... then I made the tree cry... but it wasn't crying. It was blood. Billy said so... I tried to fix it... see?" then I pointed to the gooey band-aid on the ground, "but it didn't work." I held up my soiled little hands. "Now I am all dirty and the tree...the tree it's still bleeding!" and I burst into uncontrollable sobs.
Grandma must have wanted to fall over with laughter; now that I think about the look on her face, she was extremely amused. She held her composure well. She knew that, to this little child, the situation was terribly traumatic.
"Okay," she said "calm down, we can fix this together."
"We can?" I said, wide eyed with renewed hope.
"Yes we can, but Grandma's old legs can't take much more of this. I will tell you how and you will have to do it on your own...Okay?"
"Okay!" I said leaping forward to hug her.
She moved back quickly almost falling off her squat and onto her bottom. "Your hands," she said "we'll have to clean you up after this so your mother doesn't kill us both!"
A few minutes later, Grandma brought me a small cup of water. She pretended to be very secretive about it and snuck up quietly.
"Here you go," she whispered, "now do as I said, and then come in the house and we'll clean you up."
"Okay," I whispered, acting as sly as my childish posture would allow.
I took the water and crawled under the tree, cleared an area of mulch to expose the soil beneath. I made a thick paste of mud with the water, just like Grandma instructed. I scooped up the mud with my fingers and smeared a wad of it over the wounded part of the tree trunk, then patted it to form a nice scab. Now it could heal. I was very proud of myself!
I found Grandma in the kitchen a few minutes later, being careful not to allow my mother to see the mess I had become. Grandma (still acting sneaky) brought me to the bathroom. We cleaned my muddy, sticky hands.
While Grandma brushed pieces of bark and pine needle out of my long brown hair, a thought crossed my mind that Grandma might think me a little strange because of my behavior today.
"Grandma," I asked "do you think I'm weird?"
"No, sweetie," she answered "I think you are special; you care. Don't ever lose that. Sometimes when people grow up they forget how to care, especially about the little things."
"But Grandma, the tree is a BIG thing!" I said, confused.
"Yes, I know, honey, it was a big, important thing to you. To someone else it would not be. To someone else it would just be a tree." She put the brush down and gently turned me, holding onto my shoulders, so she could look into my eyes. "You see Gina, the things that others don't understand, you do, naturally. Someday you will understand what I mean." She again turned my shoulders and gently nudged me toward the door. "Now, off with you and don't go back under that tree, understand?"
Yes, I do understand. Today, many years later, Grandma's words were fully realized. The little eccentricities I have always owned are indeed the very things that make me who I am. I have suffered because of my gentle side and those who would take advantage of it, but it is still there. I have not lost this special quality that so many others have never really owned. This invading memory brought me to realize that I am not weak, I simply care and THAT can't be a bad thing.
I would still, even today, make a mud scab to save a bleeding tree. That's who I am.
.