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lastofthewildes) wrote2014-05-13 04:34 pm
lastofthewildes) wrote2014-05-13 04:34 pm
(no subject)
Every once in a while, I find myself caught in a memory, the nostalgia hits so hard and I feel a profound ache in my soul. We had an old mulberry tree in our side yard behind the garage. The wall was dated 1937 but we tore the garage down in 2011 and the tree came down a year before.
This tree was monstrous. Being borne from a single bush untended for over a quarter of a century, it grew to be twice the size of the garage, much taller in fact, with six strong trunks in the center. I couldn't hug a trunk and touch my own hands. Standing in the middle of the trunks, I could spread my arms out wide, spin in a circle, and not touch any part of the tree. It took months to bring it down. We're still using it's stump as bonfire kindling.
I remember pulling into the driveway one Friday night; I was coming home from university for the weekend. I had to stop my car as soon as I pulled into the driveway. All of that sky above the garage looked wrong. There was so much blue and not nearly enough green. To this day, I still harbor some angst at my mother for declaring that tree begone, an eyesore.
No, it was glorious. It was quiet, it was shade, and it was a part of home. I can't tell you how many times we cut and stripped the perfect mulberry branches to roast our marshmallows. Or begin to explain how the smell of the ripe fruit would blow in through the window on the breeze, always sweet but somehow despite the summer heat, never sour. Once, we even made pies. Every summer, we'd fish white and black berry pods out of the swimming pool with the skimmer and would have to scrub the liner from where they stained. And the songs of the birds that would nest year after year!
I pray, oh do I pray, that if I plant a mulberry bush at my next home and allow it to grow wild that it would grow to be an incredible tree just like ours was. And if my children or husband ever begged me to cut it down, I pray they listen to my defense. One day, they would look back, perhaps not as fondly as I, but they would look back and realize how lovely that once insignificant plant was and allow it to become more majestic.
This tree was monstrous. Being borne from a single bush untended for over a quarter of a century, it grew to be twice the size of the garage, much taller in fact, with six strong trunks in the center. I couldn't hug a trunk and touch my own hands. Standing in the middle of the trunks, I could spread my arms out wide, spin in a circle, and not touch any part of the tree. It took months to bring it down. We're still using it's stump as bonfire kindling.
I remember pulling into the driveway one Friday night; I was coming home from university for the weekend. I had to stop my car as soon as I pulled into the driveway. All of that sky above the garage looked wrong. There was so much blue and not nearly enough green. To this day, I still harbor some angst at my mother for declaring that tree begone, an eyesore.
No, it was glorious. It was quiet, it was shade, and it was a part of home. I can't tell you how many times we cut and stripped the perfect mulberry branches to roast our marshmallows. Or begin to explain how the smell of the ripe fruit would blow in through the window on the breeze, always sweet but somehow despite the summer heat, never sour. Once, we even made pies. Every summer, we'd fish white and black berry pods out of the swimming pool with the skimmer and would have to scrub the liner from where they stained. And the songs of the birds that would nest year after year!
I pray, oh do I pray, that if I plant a mulberry bush at my next home and allow it to grow wild that it would grow to be an incredible tree just like ours was. And if my children or husband ever begged me to cut it down, I pray they listen to my defense. One day, they would look back, perhaps not as fondly as I, but they would look back and realize how lovely that once insignificant plant was and allow it to become more majestic.