The first tree I ever loved was Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. By the end of the story, I was pretty clear that the man was a villain and the tree was elevated to the status of a beloved martyr. I reread the story and hoped each time that he would make better choices, be able to support himself, not make the tree pay for his poor planning. Each time he showed up with his sad story of lack and later his advanced age and desire to be a sailor, I knew the tree would offer itself up again and each time it was my hero, the man my nemesis.
Other things strike me about the book today: how the initials carved into the tree’s trunk stay at the base of the tree. Good job Silverstein: trees grow from the top not the bottom, and mars on a trunk remain at essentially the same height over a tree’s life. And now I wonder what kind of tree it was: Ash maybe? The tree’s identity has always been a function of my favorite tree at the moment. It was a Jacaranda, then a Magnolia. Now I think it might be a Ficus, but that’s me trying to be botanicly accurate.
My second love affair with a tree was in fifth grade. We discovered silk worms in the grass outside our classroom and set our hands to ranching them. They were herded into margarine containers and fed the leaves of the mulberry trees that grew in front of the school. The silkworms interested me greatly, but I also noticed the graceful shape of the leaves that we pulled off and offered to our larval charges. We folded them into tiny booklets and orgami notes to pass in class. Long after the silkworms went on their way (okay fine, they died), I admired the mulberry trees that grew around Westport Elementary. I believed that I alone appreciated their beauty and ability to feed the worms. Perhaps The Giving Tree was a mulberry.
I‘ve loved a number of trees since then, felt a private fondness for them, worried about their wellbeing. For a long time, my infatuation was unmitigated by any real knowledge about them. I didn’t know which ones were which, I knew nothing about their cultural needs. My last love that was cloaked in ignorance was the Jacaranda which grows to majestic heights and profiles in Southern California, blanketing the streets and sidewalks with purple flowers that pop when crushed. They are ethereal sentries in the smoggy city where few old trees persist. I would learn they are also ethereal plumbing and foundation vandals.
At the dawn of my entrance into horticulture, I met a Brachychiton. It grew in the middle of our backyard with a grey, bottle-shaped trunk that shaded into bright green moving up from ground level. In the Spring it set coral colored, trumpet shaped flowers and its maple-like leaves arrived nearly two months later. I remember being confounded by its habit but charmed by its beauty. From the backyard it towered over our tiny house, visible from the street, visible from nearly a block away. From 900 miles away now, I sometimes check Google Maps to see if it’s still there. (It is.)
The things I’ve done for love:
- Pulled the markers off trees destined for the chipper at a public park
- Yelled out the window at kids playing too close to the newly planted, whiplike city street trees
- Watered new street trees on other people’s blocks
- Bent down in business attire to clear away an overabundance of mulch around a newly planted tree in public space
- Cautioned construction crews not to cut or compress exposed tree roots
- Haunted the city arborist during an outbreak of Fusarium in Canary Island Palms
- Glared at homeowners removing trees
- Rolled my eyes at landscape clients whose tree selections were overly informed by practicality
Any tree is better than none, but some trees stay with me: the ginkos in autumn at the LA Arboretum, cloaks of shocking yellow above a carpet of blue Senecio; a lone white oak on open savanna; the dark, roomy shelter under a Camperdown elm. I write papers about the metabolic pathways of plant hormones, and that’s awe inspiring to be sure. It’s incredible to sit under a tree and be mindful of the biosynthetic empire within. Perhaps it’s not quite the nirvana of a grove of quaking aspen on a windy day, but it’s close.
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