Trees that feel like I do
Today is the first day of my 80th year in this vale of tears. I was swinging along down Maine Street, deep in thought, when I heard a voice. I glanced around, but no one was in sight. Then I heard very distinctly, “Oh, the bother of it all,” coming from the direction of an ancient, grizzled, Sycamore tree, and I caught sight of a leafy branch gesturing with the breeze, as if to wipe a bead of sweat off its brow.
“Beg pardon?
“Oh, I’m glad you noticed,” coming from the tree. “Each summer it gets worse, and I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m just plumb tuckered out!”
I stood in the deep shade of his huge Sycamore leaves. “I think I know how you feel, Mr. Sycamore.”
“It’s Mrs. if you please.”
“Sorry. It’s getting harder to tell as the years go by,” I mumbled apologetically. “I guess there’s not much for it but to soldier on.” And with that lame rejoinder I continued on down the street.
I hung a left on 24th, a right on York, and another left onto 22nd Street. I began to notice that the stately Oaks and Maples have been slowly aging, year by year, losing a limb here and picking up a scar from a lightning bolt there. Their skins were getting downright wrinkled and ugly.
Could this be happening to me, too? Oh, the bother of it all… .
Dave, which he’s starting to feel his age. “And it’s about time!” Marilyn says.
Oh my dear ol’ dad! I KNEW it, I just KNEW it… you talk to trees on your walks or they talk to you, or both! I love your pictures, one of my goals in life is travel the countryside in search of stately trees (or sprightly ones) to photograph and even try to catch them in each season. I love trees! You feel your age? Really? Then you’re walking with a walking stick.. right? Good, it’s about time! Love you and happy birthday! Linda, sometimes known as L#2
Happy Birthday Uncle Dave! There’s nothing more beautiful or awe inspiring than a majestic old tree!
Happy birthday, Dave; or to send the traditional sailor’s greeting:
MANY HAPPY RETURNS!
And there is nothing wrong, or unusual with conversing with trees ( we had to had an oak removed from our garden for shouting).
Thanks to all for the comments. Kind words go a long way with me. Good, as always, to hear from across the pond, Jim. Nothing worse than a shouting tree. Shouting? Please tell us more.
Ha! Perhaps not shouting – but in all seriousness, one of my earliest memories was of my father. He was a writer, and could be rather intense at times. He used to work in a room that looked out on the garden where there were three trees. They drove him mad, principally because “they never moved, or said anything”. I was at the stage when adults could do no wrong, neither could they be odd in any way, and his behaviour worried me as much as the trees worried him… As I recall we moved house shortly afterwards.
Perhaps if he had made the first move, and spoken to them?
We will never know, will we?