It will probably come as no surprise to anyone that I grew up in a tree. Well, not every waking hour, of course, but let's just say if my mother was looking for me, she'd often look up. A few boards nailed onto adjacent limbs were as high class as our tree houses got, but we kids didn't need much of a platform to enhance our vantage point of the land below. We could see up and down the street, spy on the neighbors and feel young pride at being able to scale great heights.
My grandmother's magnolia tree in Magnolia, Arkansas, was the most influential tree in my life. Its swooping limbs that cascaded to the ground from high on its trunk were very flexible. We rode them like bucking horses we'd seen in the rodeos. The tree's cross limbs seemed perfectly placed for trapeze acts and one even served as a chinning bar. Her "Y" split trunk trained us in pretend mountain climbing. We would chimney up one side of the fork by pressing our back against it and then scoot our feet up a few inches at a time on the opposite trunk to gradually reach more branches. It's a wonder we didn't crumble into a heap on her carpet of leathery leaves below.
It's hard to account where we humans learn life's lessons, but the challenge of reaching those distant upper branches was always a goal, especially to be able to reach them before I outgrew their capacity to hold me. The tree was tolerant of us, but not always gentle because her bark was rough, and she took a fair amount of our skin as payment for us scraping our feet across her. She seemed made of iron so when we did slip, our pain was just what we had coming for being careless. Another lesson.
She was our fort, our hideout, our playhouse, our refuge and our teacher. She did all these things without uttering a word, but her silent language was indisputable. She was there when I needed comfort and, like having the companionship of a dog, she was there to listen. Her arms, which had been allowed to reach the ground, shielded her cavernous lobby under her canopy from the view of outsiders. There she taught the glory of privacy for children, who rarely get to experience long periods of time of not being watched and tended to.
Her seed bearing pods that we called burrs gave us shiny red seeds for decorating mud pies, and her grandiflora perfume defined the Southern atmosphere. The stamens around her flower's center fell off into her cupped petals and looked like tiny matches, also useful for decorating in our imagination.
After the very large seedpods had deposited their red jewels onto the world stage, they dried hard with spiky points. These were awful under bare feet, but made vicious hand grenades for lobbing at our Nazi enemies outside the green fortress of our post-war youth.
The Southern Magnolia's blossoms are very sensitive, and like gardenias, her petals bruise and darken if touched with the slightest wrong amount of pressure. Still, they're chosen to decorate weddings and funerals and other events. Their evergreen leaves are even tough enough for wintertime casket sprays, a blanket many southerners request for their final day above ground.
When I grew up, that tree continued to be an influence on how I see the world and what I do in it. I've been called a treehugger and enviro whacko for defending, planting and, yes, hugging trees as I've fought developers, bulldozers and politicians in efforts to save them.
Julia Butterfly Hill, who occupied a redwood tree for two years to protest redwood decimation, and Mary Lightheart, who did a two-week tree sit in Fayetteville to try and save a grove of huge old oaks where Target and Kohls were built, are real tree heroes. Such defenders may seem strange to those who've never loved a tree or certainly never thought about admiring or protecting one. But huggers and trees are finally getting some respect as people seek answers to the global warming that we've wrought upon ourselves.
My tree died a few years ago, but her graceful limbs that had touched the ground took root around her drip line, encircling where she once stood. What was one is now many. May the force be with you, dear trees!
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