We’ve lived in this house almost 11 years. My boys were five and eight,
so this is primarily where they grew up; this is the home they remember
the most. We moved a lot when I was a kid and somehow we always adapted
and it never really bothered me. Once I was grown, I had a nostalgic
longing to go back to the place where I grew up, but rather than “a
place” there was a series of places, a fragmented history instead of a
cohesive one. When we moved here, I planned to stay for the longterm. I
wanted the kids to have an address to visit in the future, an address
they could point to and say, “this is where I grew up.”
My
children’s father and I were the original owners of this house. We chose
the lot and the model in this development and watched it being built.
The backyard came fenced and with grass, but otherwise was void of
landscaping. It was February when we moved in so the backyard wasn’t a
priority, but as the air warmed and the outside beckoned us, we wanted
to plant and tend the blank slate that was our garden. That May, the
local Rotary Club hosted the annual tree sale where all trees were
offered for just $10. We headed down to the Albertson’s parking lot,
kicking through the sawdust they laid down for the event, and shopped
for trees. We selected a few, a couple of ornamental cherry trees
because I wanted spring blossoms. And then the birch. A tiny, spindly,
sapling. But I love birch trees, with their beautiful bark and dense
green canopy, and I hoped this one would grow into one of those
beauties. We planted the trees and the birch was placed in the far right
corner of the yard.
Every year the tree, much like my kids,
seemed to grow exponentially. Each spring as it sprouted new leaves and
soared to new heights, its trunk grew stouter, and new extensions
developed from the original, until the base of the tree was comprised of
multiple trunks. The papery bark flaked in red and white layers,
forming ruffles that adorn each sturdy base. In spring and summer, its
dense leaves rustle in the breeze and birdsong emanates from the canopy.
My little $10 birch sapling became a magnificent tree.
Yesterday
we experienced a wind storm. The weather predictions were ominous,
gusts would be strong, and trees, still heavily burdened with leaves,
would be more susceptible to damage. As the gale blew through, I kept
glancing outside. The branches of my birch flailed violently. As the
winds calmed, it appeared that the tree had withstood its wild
battering. But in the morning I peered out the window and saw a strange
gap in my tree. One of the larger branches had snapped from the trunk.
It was still attached but was lying across other branches, bending and
compromising them, its end resting on the fence we share with our
neighbors. Horrified I summoned my husband who felt the branch was too
large and heavy for us to manage ourselves. We needed help.
The
arborist was friendly, coming to my garden with 25 years of experience.
Innocently I thought he would take a look and consider it an easy fix,
as simple as removing the broken branch. As he stepped toward the birch
he gasped and said, softly, “oh no.” He surveyed the damage and assured
me he could save the tree. But it would take more than just removing the
broken branch. The trunk the branch sprung from, one of six, would have
to be completely removed because it was going to snap as well. The
branches that were compromised by the fallen one would need tending. And
then tree would need to be pruned to lighten it and protect it from
more breakage. $650.
Tears welled up and I felt sick. $650 to
fix a $10 tree. I realized at that moment how much that birch tree means
to me. How it started so small yet had grown so magnificently with each
year. How it had become a metaphor for my family and the hope I had of
permanence and what I wanted home to be. The tree’s roots are our roots,
too. Settled in the same space.
So the arborist returns
tomorrow to tend to my broken tree. It will look different, much like
our family looks different than it did 10 years ago. But it is firmly
planted, its roots are deep. And this is its home, this is where it grew
up.
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