The Tale of the Ancient Tree

by Donna Poole

I’m good at a few things, mediocre at most things, and I really stink at several things. Saying goodbye is one thing I’m horrible at, and that’s why I sympathize with the tale of the old tree. He’s been around since the whisper of Potawatomi moccasins rustled through the grass beneath his branches, but…. Well, I should let him tell you his own story. He can say it much better than I. Now, if I can just keep from interrupting. That’s another thing I’d get an F in if this were report card day.

Come with me to the old tree. It isn’t hard to find. See that? The old maple towers above any other tree in the area. It’s a beauty in the fall. Even with that shelf fungus growing on its side, a sure sign of decay within, its leaves turn a glorious orange that rivals the best autumn sunsets. Only a few leaves still cling to its branches now; the rest are piled in glorious abundance beneath. It’s an unusually warm day for late October in Michigan. You’ll be cozy sitting here under the tree with me. Lean your back against his trunk and listen well. He speaks softly.

***

Welcome, friends. Do you have time to listen to the ramblings of an old man? I’m honored you want to hear my story. Please, don’t look so alarmed. That creaking you hear doesn’t mean I’m going to fall. I will some decade soon, but not today. Let my sounds, the blue of the sky, the winds from the south, and the warm sun on your face soothe you as you listen, because all of these things are part of my story. It’s a story of change, and change is in the air. Just a week ago there was a huge spike of bird migration during the night while the people in the house slept. Over 400,000,000 birds flew over the Great Lakes, and some passed over me. I could hear their nocturnal flight calls, telling each other their position and sending the message, “Hurry, hurry. Old man winter is coming.”

How do they know? Scientists say instinct; theologians say God tells them. I say what is instinct but the whisper of the Creator in the ears of the creature. I hear the whisper myself; I’ve heard it for many years, especially in the spring when it’s time for new leaves and in the fall when it’s time for me to let my leaves shine in a short season of beauty before they drop and die. Autumn is melancholy time, a time for poets to dip pens in tears and write beautiful words like, “The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let things go.”

Lovely? Yes. The way of all nature. Yes. But so very hard. I’ve seen so many goodbyes in my time.

I don’t know how long I’ve stood here, but I was growing long before this gravel road existed. Not far to my south the Potawatomi traveled a simple footpath now called Squawfield Road, and some of them stopped here and rested in my shade. They were kind to the first settlers in the region and never a threat. It was a sad day in November of 1840 when the government forced Chief Baw Beese and his gentle tribe to leave Michigan and go to Kansas. The settlers lined the road to say goodbye, many of them in tears. A marker commemorating the Potawatomi stands just a few miles from where I do.   

I recall the first house built near me. A family was heading farther west and stopped to camp here for the night. In the morning, I heard the wife say, “Husband, you travel on if you want to, but I’m staying right here.” And so. the husband built a small house, and stay they did. He built a barn too and became a farmer. Their children climbed my branches and spent happy hours playing in my shade. Many years later, the wife noticed horses pulling wagons of lumber up over the barn hill. That’s when she discovered her husband had decided to build a bigger house just to the north of the little one, and she was not pleased. When the big house was finished, I saw her carrying linens and kitchen ware up over the barn hill from the little house to the big one, and I saw tears running down her face. She’d spent many happy years in the little house, and goodbyes are not easy.

Her son and his wife moved into the little house. They had two children of their own and I lost count of how many foster children they cared for. I loved having so many happy children playing nearby.

I’ve seen so many changes. I remember when the Ford Model Ts began replacing horses and wagons. One old farmer refused to buy one. The neighbors teased him. When he plodded by with his horses and wagon, they’d laugh and holler, “Get a truck!”

One spring torrential rain turned the dirt roads to mud and all those Model Ts got stuck. The old farmer came along with his horses and pulled each one out, grinned, and said, “Get a horse!”

When the old folks in the big house died, I wept right along with the family. It’s not easy saying goodbye.

The big house didn’t stay empty for long. The son and his wife moved into it. The little house sat empty for a time. A tenant farmer lived there for a while. Once, it even housed chickens.

Then one summer, fifty years ago, a young couple with a little girl moved into the house. I knew what was happening; my leaves don’t miss many whispers. A small country church down at the corners had hired a new pastor and they were renting this house for him to use as a parsonage. I watched as that family grew to six, and the couple in the big house grew old. I was growing older too, and bigger. Children could no longer reach my branches to climb them.

And then the old couple in the big house died, and I cried again. They were good people. They’d helped many children, and they’d cared for the land.

Once again people carried household belongings up over the barn hill from the little house to the big one. A kind neighbor had bought the house and had given it to the pastor and his family. If you think there are no good people left in the world, you should stand where I’ve stood for a few hundred years and hear the things I’ve heard.

By the time the pastor and his family moved into the big house two of the four children were already in college and one was getting ready to graduate from high school, but there was still one young child. If you haven’t guessed by now, I love children. This little girl was six years old, and she declared I was her tree. She couldn’t climb me, but one day she did climb a nearby tree and got stuck.

She hollered for her parents to come help her, but they were inside and didn’t hear. The farmer who had moved into the little house was outside, and he came and helped her out of the tree. She was embarrassed to need help and furious with her parents for not hearing her. It’s almost thirty years later, and I think she’s still a little upset with them.

When the college children came home to visit and left again, I watched the mom and dad stand outside and wave goodbye until the car taillights disappeared down the road. Goodbye is hard.

The parents grew older long before they expected to, and I can tell they are still having a hard time adjusting to it. Sometimes now the mom needs help getting into the house. For several years cancer and its brutal treatments left her unable to do many things, and her youngest daughter and her son-in-law took over. That same daughter is a photographer, and she loves taking photos of me. She still says I’m her tree.

When the adult kids come home now, they bring a troop of grandchildren with them, fifteen at last count. Sometimes the younger ones play outside, and I love hearing the laughter.

When their family leaves, the mom and dad still follow them outside and wave until the taillights are out of sight. They have many years of practice saying goodbye, but it doesn’t seem to get any easier. I see tears on their faces sometimes, and the mom whispers, “Via Con Dios, go with God.” I expect I will still be here when the pastor and his wife go to be with God, and I will once again shed tears with the family.

 Who will live in the big house next? Will I still be here? A maple tree lives 150-300 years. I can feel a change coming, a coldness in my rings. The third child born to the pastor and his wife had a favorite book when he was a little boy. It was titled, “The Dead Tree.” It told how a tree fell, became a home, sheltering small wild things, and eventually crumbled away, enriching the earth. I’d like to think that would happen to me, but since I’m in someone’s yard, I suppose when I fall, I’ll be chopped up and hauled away. I hope I become firewood and warm someone’s home, useful to the last ember. And I hope someone feels a little sad when I’m gone.

Thank you for listening to my story. Perhaps you can tell it to your children, the story of an old tree who lived when the only sound was the whisper of moccasins, who saw the first roads, cars, trucks and tractors, the first phone and electric wires, the first satellite dishes, and through it all did what God made him to do. He gave shade to all who needed it and beauty to all who would look. And every day his branches pointed high to the Creator, higher than any of the other trees around. And he knew that there was one little girl who never stopped loving him, not even when she grew up.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

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Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer