For the Druid: In Memory Of Trees.

If I could take you back in time, back to the late sixties and early seventies, I could show you some of my favorite trees. Our yard in Blakely had quite a few Mimosa trees, which are considered to be “Trash Trees” by most people. To the kids in our neighborhood, the Mimosa trees were fun because they were easy to climb, provide a lot of shade, and looked beautiful, too. The bloom of the Mimosa looks like the head of some exotic bird, all spiked out, pink, white and sometimes even red.

 A large Mimosa tree in Columbia Alabama died one year and instead of just shopping it up or burning it the owner got inventive and turned it into a piece of artwork. Four of the branches had grown just right so they formed four legs, the main part of the tree had grown just right so to look like the head of an animal and two more branches grew from this part as to look like very long horns. The owner took the tree out into the middle of his yard, painted it red, drew a face on it, and had an amazing looking Mimosa tree Long Horn Steer. For years and years, that painted dead tree was a fixture in Columbia and we would pass it each time we went to Dothan Alabama, which was the nearest place from Blakely to see a movie or eat in a real restaurant. I have no idea when the Steer finally “died” but it was one of those things from my childhood that I’ll never get back.

The largest Mimosa in our yard was in the back and it took some doing to get up the tall trunk. Mind you, this was from the view of a child, not an adult. But once within the branches of the tree, I could scale up so high as to be almost even with the high dive at the City Pool. Back then, almost all City Pools had high dives as well as low dives, but the insurance rates drove the high diving boards away forever. The large Mimosa in the back yard died one year, and my father had me cut it down with a tiny handsaw. My older sister and I took pieces of the Mimosa and craved tiny African looking statues out of it. The statues eventually cracked and split, but I kept them for many years. It was all I had left of the tree, and I wanted to take some part of it with me. But children cannot keep memories and the statues were lost.

There was a smaller Mimosa in the front yard that was still climbable but not nearly as large. This was more of a community tree because it was so close to the road. I remember half a dozen or so of us kids climbing that tree to get away from Spike, the bird dog we owned at the time. Spike liked to tackle kids and chew on them. He never broke the skin but he did like to hurt. He held me down one day and chewed on me so in desperation, I bit him as hard as I could on his leg. Spike yelped, let me go and I sprung up and attacked him, fist and foot. It was a rearrangement of the pack hierarchy though I didn’t realize it at the time. I never had to climb the Mimosa tree to get away from Spike anymore.

I miss Spike fiercely and passionately. When I was growing up, he was the little brother I never had. t. The day Spike was killed in 1973, I buried a part of my soul that hasn’t returned yet and it was the last time I cried like a child.

There was a third Mimosa tree in our yard but it was smallish and we never climbed it. The two trees in front died about the same time, and after they were gone, part of who I had been passed in time. Always, I have defined who I am by the trees near me, or the lack of, and losing two giants in the last three years has stung. There is a tiny Mimosa in my yard, years from being full-grown, and I hope one day I can sit in my own Mimosa again.

Take Care,

 Mike