I think that I shall never see…

Things change, and that change is inevitable. We know it, and yet we form relationships with what is around us that is bound to make that change painful. That is, of course, most obvious with the family and friends. But it’s not limited to people. We form relationships with other objects, whether we want to or not, and often those relationships have a strength that is not so obvious, but is no less real. 

This was brought home to me over the summer when we had a mini tornado whip through our neighborhood and take out three of the trees in our front yard. (Yes, a mini tornado. And it wasn’t the only one in this area). I knew that I was attached to those trees. I knew that they formed an important part of the property that I have called home for the last 25 years. I just was not aware of how emotionally invested I was in those trees until they were no longer there. 

When we first moved into this house the lot looked a lot different than it does now. I scoured through hundreds of old pictures to see if I could find one that showed our house back then, but no luck. Even though we have picture after picture of times and places that I cannot recall, we don’t have any of the haven we always came back to at the end of the day. Some things you just take for granted. 

Without a picture, you are just going to have to satisfy yourself with the artist’s rendering below. As you can see, there were four giant oak trees shielding our house from the street, as well as a good size tree on the side and a scraggly little tree near the house. There was also a hedge leading from the sidewalk to the front door. 

The hedge was the first to go, and no great loss. Then we took down the tree on the side of the house because it was clearly rotted out. I don’t remember why we took down the first of the four oaks in front of the house, but the second went after we heard a very loud crack in the middle of winter and found the tree basically split in two, but still standing. We had no doubt what the next crack we heard would mean. 

Still, that left us with a nice symmetry (See artist’s rendering number 2). The two remaining oaks bracketed the lawn, providing ample shade and maintaining the feel we had when we bought the place. There was definitely a sense of loss with the other trees, but the feeling of home was intact. 

Then the tornado hit. Even though our neighbors heard the tree go, we did not. Will and I were home, but we were looking out back at the golf ball size hail (which broke a window). We didn’t hear the cry of “timber”, or feel the ground shake. (If a tree falls in your front yard and you didn’t hear it, does it make a sound? YES, IT DOES!!!!). Then we looked out front and saw the damage.

The result was three trees gone, and a very different looking landscape to our property. The import of this began to hit me when the storm passed and the neighborhood emerged to survey the damage. I was in a bit of shock, and hadn’t really taken in what had happened when I saw a little girl, probably in 4^th or 5^th grade, embracing the fallen tree and crying. You see, the corner where this tree stood is a bus stop for elementary school children, and the tree was the center of the kids play while they waited for the bus. 

It wasn’t just that tree either. I heard one of the kids who had gathered wail, “Oh no, not the climbing tree too.” That was the tree that stood next to the oak. It was just perfect for scrambling up. Strong, low branches. A nice medium height so you could go up pretty far without feeling too afraid. My heart contracted when I heard that because that was what my kids called that tree too, and I didn’t know that neighborhood kids saw it the same way.  

Now the left side of my yard is wide open. The sun steams unchecked toward my house in the morning, which is OK, I guess. But it feels so empty. So unfinished. As if there was a puzzle piece or two missing and lost forever. I do a double take every time I step out the front door.  

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I am also struck by the sense of impermanence. The shading of these huge trees was a big part of what made this “home”, and home is something you think will always be there to return to, no matter what. I know that’s really not the case, and I have left homes before. (Try going back to the house you grew up in. It seems alien). But I think that desire for a base in there in all of us. 

There is also that sense of loss that comes with the disappearance of something you know so well. How many times have I leaned against that tree? How many times have I wound around its roots while cutting the grass? How many times have I stood in its shade talking to neighbors on a hot day? It was so much more a part of me than I ever realized. 

We are looking to get a new tree to fill that corner. It is just too bare as it is. Below are some suggestions made by a landscaper. Any thoughts? There are certainly some I like, but no matter what we choose, it will not be the same. That feeling of a haven has left the building.