Late last fall, a wind storm took down the old apple tree at my childhood home. All that held it to the ground was one massive root. The entire inside base was completely decayed. I spent 8 hours cutting up branches so that my 83 year old father would not be burdened with the mess.
The tree was the last apple tree to stand on my great grandparents home sites. The land was filled with fruit trees, grapes, raspberries, flower and veggie gardens before my father built our home on the site.
On Monday, my husband, father and I cut down the remains of what I did not get done in November. Amazingly, those branches that remained were covered in apple blossoms. In its last moments of life , the tree was decked out in such a lovely and sweet smelling bloom. The bees were busy pollinating as we removed the last limbs.
As I turned to check on my father to make sure that he was not over doing it, I could see a tear trickling down his face. I knew that memories were flashing through his mind. I sat down next to him on his cedar swing to share some memories. As a child, I use to climb up that tree and let my imagination soar. My sister and I had many a tea party under its canopy. My dad hung a big old rope on one of the big limbs and we swung on it. I would chase my dogs around it.
My dad told me that he remembered the tree as a small whip when he was just a boy. Five generations had emcompassed their lives. The woodpeckers drilled lots of holes in it looking for insects. A section of our locust tree blew off and hit a big limb off of it. The wrens faithfully returned each year to build a nest in the birdhouse that hung on one of the branches. The squirrel would sit in one of the decaying branch cavities and eat sunflower seeds that my father would place in it each day during the winter months. Now it sat in neatly stacked piles, waiting to be transported to my house to be burned in my fireplace. Ah,.....if trees could talk, what stories they would tell.
The tree was the last apple tree to stand on my great grandparents home sites. The land was filled with fruit trees, grapes, raspberries, flower and veggie gardens before my father built our home on the site.
On Monday, my husband, father and I cut down the remains of what I did not get done in November. Amazingly, those branches that remained were covered in apple blossoms. In its last moments of life , the tree was decked out in such a lovely and sweet smelling bloom. The bees were busy pollinating as we removed the last limbs.
As I turned to check on my father to make sure that he was not over doing it, I could see a tear trickling down his face. I knew that memories were flashing through his mind. I sat down next to him on his cedar swing to share some memories. As a child, I use to climb up that tree and let my imagination soar. My sister and I had many a tea party under its canopy. My dad hung a big old rope on one of the big limbs and we swung on it. I would chase my dogs around it.
My dad told me that he remembered the tree as a small whip when he was just a boy. Five generations had emcompassed their lives. The woodpeckers drilled lots of holes in it looking for insects. A section of our locust tree blew off and hit a big limb off of it. The wrens faithfully returned each year to build a nest in the birdhouse that hung on one of the branches. The squirrel would sit in one of the decaying branch cavities and eat sunflower seeds that my father would place in it each day during the winter months. Now it sat in neatly stacked piles, waiting to be transported to my house to be burned in my fireplace. Ah,.....if trees could talk, what stories they would tell.
