One of the most frightening, and interesting, experiences I had as a child was the trips I made with my father to a little bar in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't really a bar, it was just a shack that some men went to drink, and looking back I suspect that they were drinking alcohol that was made in or near the shack. There was electric lights, I remember that because there was a neon sign there, although I was too young to be able to read it. I also remember there was no indoor plumbing and everyone peed on trees outside.
None of this would have stuck in my mind except there was a steep and deep ditch that had to be crossed to get from the dirt road to the shanty bar. The bridge across the ditch consisted of two railroad ties that were laid across the ditch, and that was what cars had to drive across to get to the other side. It looked terrifyingly high to me at that age, but I really have no idea of the actual height. I hated for us to get onto that little bridge, such as it was but I loved the feeling, too. I thought there was no way, no way at all, my father could always know where those two ties were but we were never sent crashing down into the ravine, to burst into flames and explode upon impact.
Another scary part of my life was the continuous falling tree, who lived in the Bostick's yard where Meadowbrook Drive turned into Westview Drive in Blakely Georgia. I was four or five, and back in the mid-sixties it was not only safe for kids to ride their bikes around the neighborhood, it was mandated. Get out of the house! Go play! Go outside! The territory that I was able to explore expanded geometrically once I got a bike, and to ride all the way to Meadowbrook Drive, about a half mile away, was an experience. Past that, and I entered the territory of the unknown. Past that point and I could no longer see my house, although through the power of the telephone, and the network of mother's who spied upon all children, I was never quite out of sight of my mother no matter how far I might go.
The tree was the most massive living object I had ever seen in my short life. It was like the guardian of the unknown territory past my immediate area of exploration. It was an oak, I know that much, but I cannot remember very much about it, except that it was so terribly big. I was too young to understand optical illusion and far too young not to believe what my eyes appeared to see. I had crept past Westveiw and headed east on Meadowbrook. I was pedaling hard to pick up speed because it was downhill. I loved speed. I raced down the hill and then very quickly turned around before anyone could call my mother and tell her how far from the house I had strayed.
I was a tiny child, and the bike, like all things my parent's bought for me, was too large. Their theory was that if they bought things for me that were too big I would grow into them. Anything the right size would just encourage me to be small all my life. As much fun as zoom downhill was going uphill was a trial. As I neared the Bostick place, I looked up at the tree and it appeared to be falling towards me. My forward motion on the bike, along with the clouds moving up above the tree made it look as if it were moving. Trees, I knew, did not move, except when they fell, ergo, the tree was falling. Terrified at the thought of the tree hitting me, even though now I realize I was too far away to worry about it, I stopped. The tree stopped falling. As I watched it, it stood still. When I started moving it did too. More afraid of my mother than any falling tree, I pumped those bike pedals while screaming in agony. Now, you have to understand that the tree, as massive as it was, could not have possibly reached me in the road. Moreover, if the tree has been falling, it certainly wouldn't have fallen so slowly as to terrorize me for as long as it did. Once I got back home, I ran into the house screaming about the falling tree.
What did my mother have to say about the fact that a giant tree was falling over in a neighbor's yard?
"What were you doing down there anyway?"
You know, I'm fairly certain I could have told my mother than the earth had opened up, Satan Himself had arise from the smoking ground flanked by a million minor demons as minions and she would have asked me that same question, even if there was a strong odor of brimstone wafting through the air, and bat winged devils were flying by.
I was grounded from my bike for the rest of the day, but I stood at the edge of our yard and watched the tree, waiting for it to topple. It didn't. Three decades later I would return to the neighborhood and discover the tree was gone, and had been gone, for many years. Nothing at all remained of its existence, not even a stump. As odd as it sound, I feel as if I should have returned sooner, to say good bye.
Take Care,
Mike
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Comments: 24
I, too had a bike too big and a limit on how far was too far...and I was small, very small, until I turned 16.
I, too miss the trees that were landmarks in our memoriies, as with all things that remind me of the more peaceful days of my youth.
Thanks for the story!
Thank you!
I grieve for far more many trees than I do humans.
I suspect that you and I share many parts of a common past.
I love to read your work.
is that not the way of life? We never know what we've lost until it is gone forever.
I love having you here.
Recently, the church next-door decided to cut down every tree in its cemetery. The sawing must have taken place while I was at work, because I don't remember any sounds -- just the sudden discovery that the trees were all dead, lying like fallen soldiers in the snow, amongst the gravestones. I remember that I gasped, and wondered what on earth had happened. I knew something was attacking the maple across the street from there, and wondered if that was the only option to stop the disease? If so, my only tree is doomed...
When I got home, I was shocked to find my middle son up in arms, ranting about the dead trees! Who knew I'd had a son just like me?
Last week, when I took the walk I featured in my photo-essay, I stopped to take pictures of the trees. A man saw me and drove up to talk about them -- an elderly gentleman who helped me see the places where the trees were indeed diseased and dying or dead. There were liability issues and other concerns as well. it seemed that the man, who is a forester as well as a member of the Cemetery Board, wanted me to understand that the action was not done without some regret.
We also discussed which kinds of trees would be chosen to replant the cemetery. I suggested Mountain Ash, and afterwards felt pleased that we'd had that conversation. I have photos of the trees alive, and cut down, and now I'll be waiting to take pictures of the new young trees that come to live in our neighborhood.
Thank you so very much.
You really ought to turn that commnet into an article.
Show it to your students, and see what they think.
You should do an article on that.
Mike, did you saa Dannielle's oak leaf picture I suggested she dedicate to you?
Psyche. Your mother is the example all the other mothers should look up to....
what were you doing there anyway....haha -- mother's don't care about the rest of the world is doing or how it's spinning so much as what their little boy is out and about doing in it. Doesn't matter if a hurricane sucks you out into the bay and nearly drowns you...she'll ask what were you doing in New Orleans anyway on New Years Eve....no better sign of a good mother in the world.
I tend to think of tree as eternal. when I go back and find one missing there is a sense of violation, as if the very fabric of the universe has been torn.