The Shade Tree

With work gloves on, he used the short-handled shovel as a cane. She held tight to the one-and-a-half inch diameter trunk to keep herself upright. The sugar maple was no more than three years old and no taller than she. They were over-dressed. Both in style and for the weather. The day was balmy and thick with the high summer sun. He wore dress shoes, brown pants, a tucked-in buttoned-up checkered shirt and a brown cardigan. His driver’s cap shielded the sun from his bald head but sweat still made his glasses slide down his nose. She had white thick-soled orthopedic shoes, navy blue pants, a light blue blouse and a white sweater. Her white hair shone in the light.

Cars rushed by, one hand on the wheel, one hand scrolling, drum beats and bellows echoing through the streets. The couple had stopped noticing what passed by years ago. Or, having seen it all many times over, no longer had need to take notice. They were focused, anyway, on what they had planned their week around and towards – planting a sugar maple in the front yard.

He worked slowly but confidently. Not so much digging as scraping, little by little, layer by layer. The hole grew wider and deeper. The morning grew longer. The pile of excavated earth grew higher. From a small wheelbarrow, she would sprinkle a compost mix in with the dirt.

They grew tired and walked the slow path to the porch to eat lunch - white bread sandwiches. Bologna, Duke’s mayonnaise and individually wrapped American cheese slices. They ate the sandwiches that she had made and drank the sweet iced tea that she had brewed. He said, “I think this side is the face,” point a shaking hand towards the tree that sat in its pot before them. The side of the tree facing them was fuller and wider.

“It looks like it.”

“We’ll turn it so as you can see it from the road.”

“And towards the south.”

Back at the hole, refreshed enough, his short-handled shovel found a rock. The yard is full of them. A rock farm, he used to say. Shrub and garden beds around the house were lined with years of rocks that they had pulled from the ground. A few big enough to sit comfortably on. He hoped this wasn’t one of those. It had been years since his back and arms would let him toss around large stones. His prior self would quickly pry and leverage any rock from the ground and roll or flip it to wherever he thought it stood out. Today, he worked with the care of an archeologist, finding first the edges and slowly brushing and sifting away layers of dirt. After circling the top of rock, he knew its shape and thought he could manage it. He worked his way down and around the bowling ball size stone, moving his hole slightly from where he had planned. That was okay. Working his shovel under, the rock finally made its first move. A slight shift. He smiled and knew how much energy it would take and that he had just that much left. Back and forth, around and under, he took small shovels full.  Like a child’s first loose tooth, it slowly became dislodged and finally rolled into the bottom of the hole. The man exhaled.

Even though the task was very nearly too much for him physically, it was necessary and still almost not enough for him mentally. If he could still dig a hole for a tree, they wouldn’t be digging one for him.

The woman left the hole and returned with long, worn straight handled shovel. On opposite sides of the hole, they raised the rock inch by inch until it perched at the top, resting heavily on both shovels crossing underneath it. Together they tipped the shovels and the rock towards the lower side of the hole. It rolled out and down to a slight sag just in front of the hole. There, the rock immediately began to settle and start its long, slow journey back into the earth.

“The good thing about rocks is, once you get them out, the hole is empty!” he said as he pulled from the hole one last scoop, leaving enough of a home to hold the root ball.

They tipped the tree over. He held the bucket, she held the trunk. With soft hands, she held strong while he struggled to pull off the bucket which was wedged with root growth. Finally free, together they loosened the tightly bound roots. They lowered the tree into its final resting place, straitened the trunk and turned to make sure that the face was to the road and to the south.  They took turns backfilling the hole and gently stepped a ring around the tree. While he kneeled to pack a small berm to catch water, hurting his knees, she dragged the hose to let the long trickle start.

He smiled to himself. He could still do it. He was still a strong man. He could still do anything.

She stood and watched as the water soaked deep into the hole that was not there earlier in the day. The roots that had been bound and dry were outstretched and getting wet. The leaves felt the sun from a new angle. She watched as a breeze made the leaves dance. She smiled to herself as the canopy at the edge of the sunny yard gained a few new members. Less lawn, more habitat.

Exhausted for the day, they stood and looked the tree. It stood confidently in its new home as it became the home. The small rock, still dirty, served as a marker and compliment. The water started to overtop the berm and flow down towards the rock. “That’s good.” He said. She turned off the water and they took one last look at the tree before the walked back to the house. They each knew they would never stand together in the shade of this tree but that isn’t why they planted it.