The tree of my childhood is gone.
Twisted asunder, splintered and wounded beyond surviving. A majority of the hemlock was hurled to the ground with enough force to shake the windows of Dad’s house and take out his workbench and a variety of tools that were nestled underneath. Mother Nature and Alberta Clipper had a bit of a tussle, and everyone knows when these two go at it, someone walks away injured. On this particular day as Mother N and Alberta waged their seasonal war, the force of their dispute exceeded 60 miles per hour. The hemlock, which had survived decades of their drama, couldn’t take it another day and so she released the hold she had on this earth.
Dad’s place won’t be the same without the hemlock.
Not too long ago, we humans symbolically planted trees for a variety of reasons. We grabbed the shovel and planted a sapling when couples married, and then another when the couple purchased their first home. The birth of children warranted a celebratory tree, usually a Magnolia. We even planted remembrance trees—typically a Dogwood—when a loved one passed. We were a society of tree ambassadors, knowing what poet, Munia Khan, penned succinctly, “Trees exhale for us … we inhale them to stay alive.” This hemlock, planted long before I was born, and while dad was a mere child, gave the Winchester family years of comfort.
I was six years old when I fell in love with her. Dust boiled up from beneath Dad’s company truck as he returned home from another exhausting day. He was a lineman for Nantahala Power and Light back when men clipped climbing cleats to their boots and hung from poles with a thick leather belt. Like every afternoon, I rushed to greet him. His finger was looped inside the green Stanley thermos cup and his other hand held his silver lunchbox, which was open. I thought the clasp had broken, because Mama often used a bobby pen to wedge the metal clasp closed before she kissed him goodbye and set him on his way.
Dad knelt and motioned me forward. Inside the lunchbox were two baby squirrels, eyes-closed. They were more naked and afraid than cute and cuddly. Dad didn’t have to tell me they would die without our help; I instinctively knew. He had called Mama from the office warning her of the new addition to our family, because when I turned she presented us with two plastic baby bottles full of milk already prepared. Of course these were the days when the baby doll Santa brought at Christmas came with a plastic screw-top bottle, ready-made for emergencies such as raising baby squirrels.
I remember swaddling the little loves in a washcloth and smiling when their tiny hands held the bottle. Just as I remember how those claws scratched my skin when they climbed up and down my arms. When the squirrels became juveniles we set them free in the Hemlock tree where they lived happily ever after amidst the birds, skinks and cicadas.
There was a limb, bent low to accommodate our swings, and a sandbox made from a couple pieces of timber and filled after we made a trip down River Road. When I was a kid, no one purchased “play sand.” The river provided sand aplenty. One only needed a strong back and a shovel; the Winchesters had both. After the procurement of sand, we made a game of unloading the truck using my brother’s yellow caterpillar dump truck toy and Mama’s broom.
The tree was pleased with our work.
Beside the tree, my parents added a swing set with two wooden seats and a metal slide. Evenings were spent outside with Brother’s footsteps banging against the metal as he climbed up the wrong way and slid back down. I climbed up the ladder the correct way, rule follower that I am, and whined that he had cut line.
The Hemlock enjoyed the sound of our laughter, even our disagreements and the whines of “Mom!” we screamed when either of us weren’t getting our way.
After we became adults and moved away, my parents retained the swing set and eventually replaced the two wooden swings with one long bench seat where they could rest in the shade, swinging slowly as they recalled the raising of children and the rapid passing of time. When Mama passed away, Trixie, Dad’s mountain feist, took Mama’s place beside Dad.
Birds nested in cervices, doves cooed their enticements, hopeful for a mate. Every morning Dad pulled open the living room curtains and looked into the tree for whatever winged beauty had taken resident. I purchased a book that identified birds which he paired with his field glasses. We welcomed nuthatch, chickadee, pileated woodpeckers and wrens, but it is the bluebirds that bring him the most joy. He quickly built a home for the “blues.” And watches them fly from the man-made birdhouse, to the outstretched limbs of the Hemlock.
Beneath the shade, we ate meals on mismatched Corelle Livingware plates carefully balanced on our knees. Fresh tomatoes and cucumbers still warmed from the sun, harvested from the garden a mere ten steps from the tree. We snaked extension cords from the front of the house and made homemade ice cream, with a dishpan beneath the machine so not a single drop of rock salt leached into the tree’s roots.
And then the wooly adelgid came. We waged war, tackling the fluffy demon spawn until it was no longer a threat, because the Winchesters will protect a tree until the bitter end. Even though we won the battle, it was this adelgid that weakened her so that she could no longer withstand the springtime battles between Mother Nature and Alberta Clipper.
Now, only memories remain, along with three tiny saplings that have waited beneath Mother Hemlock for their time in the sun. They say baby hemlocks are impossible to grow, but here we are, with three saplings, each two feet tall. We shall never experience their greatness, not like that of their mother, but we know her lifeblood flows through their sap.
It is my great hope you have memories of trees. If not, now would be the perfect time to select one to bring home. In the words of Munia Khan, let us love trees with every breath we take until we perish.