Trees are on my mind these days. This Saturday, we’ll have a Women in Interfaith Dialogue conversation about the trees we’ve known and loved throughout our lives, as well as our spiritual connection with trees personally and within our faith traditions. Then next week (Jan. 25–29) we have a wonderful series of Treasuring Our Trees offerings with partners throughout the community. So trees—and the way they hold and connect us—are really on my mind right now.
I’ve been looking back at my family photo albums at trees that grew along with us as part of our family. There were the three tiny oaks my Grandma planted near the well on the family farm—trees that within twenty years developed into luscious maiden strength and beauty. There was the Big Mother Oak by the farmhouse who held the tire swing that literally rocked my sister and me back and forth dreamily and joyously throughout our childhood. And then there was the Blue Rapids Juniper, a special Old Pine tree who lived by the creek (pronounced “crick”) where we took our picnic lunches and our imaginations on lazy summer days.
Over the years, when we would return to visit the city where my parents grew up and where my sister and I were born, we always went on a Town Tour, seeing different relatives and family friends, and driving by familiar places. Mom would say, “Look kids, there’s the hospital where you were born.” And Dad would say, “And here’s where mom and I lived right after we got married.” Next we’d drive by our old house on 9th Street, the house standing unchanged, and the big tree in the front still a full and lovely tree. As we continue the tour, Dad would say, “This is the bank where your Grandma Carol worked, and over there is the bakery where your Uncle Cecil worked.” Then my favorite part of the tour, which Dad would stop the car for, “Here’s my old elementary school and that’s the tree I planted as a kid.” It is a picture-perfect oak tree. Full bodied and muscular, a thick head of hair; a real this-is-what-a-tree-looks-like-in-its-prime kind of tree.
My Great Aunt Lucille sent me a newspaper clipping with a photo of Dad planting this oak tree as a child on Arbor Day. The photo always strikes me because even as an elementary school kid, my dad looks like an adult as he plants this tree, very serious and with expert care. And when I admire a more recent photo of Dad and the tree, one taken decades later while on one of our Town Tours, Dad is a full-grown adult and yet here he looks like the child of this massive tree. And this glorious parent tree will one day be a spry grandparent tree. Come to think of it, Dad is now a spry grandparent, planting trees alongside his own grandchildren, all of them showing serious expert care in their tree planting. I love this continuing cycle of love and learning and trees within our family.
The trees of our family farms and birth towns hold a place for us, always welcoming us home with wide arms. And wherever we find ourselves, trees are home. Yes, trees themselves are home. Trees themselves are family. I’ve lived in an urban forest neighborhood with my soul mate for the last twenty years. This forest where I call home—the forest as a whole—is a friend, a family member, a fairy godmother and a constant companion. As I continue looking through my family photo albums, I see this forest home growing and changing over the seasons and the years. When I see forest photos from just a year ago, pre-derecho, I feel a pang of love and loss—that same immediate emotional reflex that I feel when I see pictures of my dearly departed Grandma. And yet Grandma is always with me, just like the trees are always with me, even when some of them fall. We had a life together. We share a story, a continuing story. We are family, and we are together for ever and ever. Trees are home in the same way my Grandma is home. Trees are family in the same way our grandparents are family. Our families continue on with grandchildren and baby trees who will one day be the grandparents.
Quick as any reflex I feel the arms of my grandparents and the arms of trees. I recall the voice of my grandma just as I recall the whispering voice of the trees, a chorus of family stories on the wind. Always continuing. Always renewing.
Do you recall trees who are part of your own family story? Trees who are part of your family tree? Who are the trees you’ve known and loved throughout your life? Who are the trees you go home to?
—Angie Pierce Jennings, Prairiewoods hosted groups and hospitality coordinator