Photos | Quantum Hermit

[Day Twenty: The Things We Treasure]

In the spring of 1990, we had only been here for 11 months. These were still new digs, and each day brought a sense of wonder, to be out of the city; to step onto our deck and breathe in the clean air. It was fresh, and infused with that delicious earthy scent of a land waking up after a season buried beneath the crystalline blanket of Winter’s mantle.

I remember driving around these long and winding roads, happily knowing they were my mine, now. There were hills and dales, and as the Spring was bringing forth the colors which would paint our days with brilliant yellows, pinks, purples, much of which morphed into green, I was filled with awe.

I had been thus filled, even in the city, as the maples dropped their tender buds, carpeting the sides of the rutted streets with what I imagined was Faerie dust. But the difference was simply stunning when we arrived here. The lanes were tunnels beneath the boughs of giant trees.

The world was filled with such an amazing variety of flora, some new to my eyes. I marveled at how much I had not yet discovered. Perhaps the greatest of all was what I consider parenting my own tree.

As the Spring emerged, and we became aware of the various ways which our new town brought the community together, encouraging us to fill the world with greater abundance, we found ourselves heading down to a local park. They were giving away cuttings of trees, and some bushes. That day we chose several different species. We brought home three evergreens and a dogwood, and a Rugosa rose.

After we carried these clippings home, I recall we sat on the back deck and looked out upon our yard. It had changed quite a bit since last year, when we moved in. A grand forsythia bush, the border between us and our closest neighbor, ran along side our home, front yard to back yard, West to East. Where it ended, just past the house, up a rather steep rise in the yard, past a towering apple tree, a wild rose bush spread, not only all the way to the yard behind our half acre, but voraciously spread out into the lawn itself, taking up a good third of our land. That it seemed a wilderness, thrilled me. I would have left it as is, but, in truth, it was not my house. My parents owned it, and how the yard was changed, did not include my own wants nor feelings.

The jagger (wild rose) was pruned severely back, so that it only ran the length of the yard, but was not allowed to continue it’s Southward encroachment. The apple tree was also taken down, much to my own dismay, and we were left with a rather sizable stump, which served, in later years, as the stand for a birdbath.

As we looked out over the very different landscape of changes, we each envisioned where our new sprigs might take root, after we nurtured them at the beginning of their journey from twig to tree.

My choice was an Eastern Pine. The two other evergreens were a Douglas Fur, and a Blue Spruce. My parents determined where their new homes would be. My aunt, chose to plant the Rugosa Rose at the back of the yard, where a shed was erected to hold our implements of gardening. My mother also chose where to plant the Dogwood.

We filled small flower pots with rooting mixture, and each sapling was planted, and tended until they were big enough to be placed into the ground. The spot I chose for my Eastern Pine was at the bottom of the hill, somewhat close to the deck. The other two evergreens were to be planted in the Southern region of the yard. The dogwood in the Northland. All grew successfully in their pots.

The day came when it was determined by my mother, The Green Thumb Lady, that it was time to transplant them. I knelt down and dug a hole, which became my Eastern Pine’s home. It was actually quite the good spot, as the bottom of the hill tended to become a small stream during the rainy season, so there was greater water.

I surrounded my little tree with some wire, marking the do-not-mow-zone. That my father had not considered this for his trees remains a mystery. Both were taken by the mower’s blades. The dogwood, while safe from the mower, did not seem to do well where it was planted. The Rugosa Rose flourished, as did the beautiful Eastern Pine.

Of course, within five years, I would take off for the Midwest, and then head down to Texas, after marrying. I missed many birthdays of my Eastern Pine. At five years old, she looked more shrubby than like the magnificent tree she would become, providing privacy between our property and the neighbor to the south.

My Eastern Pine at 5 years old, and my sweet kitty Oshi.

Fim Tree and the stump garden

As she stands, today, the only survivor of our foray to the park to get free cuttings, I can’t help but admire this incredible tree. She provides shade as well, for the deck, now. I call her my treasure, and she’s been also named The Fim Tree. She towers over the house now, and while I can’t honestly say, she’s a possession, she is a sister being who is loved, and cherished.