Ginny's Tree

One could not imagine the old walnut tree without the treehouse. They had become inseparable, like Laurel and Hardy, Astaire and Rogers - time had morphed the two into one. The tree's sturdy branches hugged the little wooden enclosure as tightly and securely as a protective parent embracing a child in danger. When summer was in full bloom, the treehouse was barely visible, and so were its occupants. Making it a wonderful place to hide from a searching parent or an annoying sibling. Such was not the case during winter. During those months, the barren tree provided no camouflage, exposing every wood plank and every opening in the 30-year-old structure.

My father and his brothers built the treehouse during the sweltering summer of 1936. Inside their farmhouse was like a raging inferno, simply too hot to sleep, forcing the boys to bed down outside. But waking to ants crawling from head to toe proved to be as unbearable as the heat inside. So, the brothers came up with the idea of building sleeping quarters in a tree. They figured it would protect them from those nightly pests, and the breezes blowing across their sweaty skin would help cool them down.

Behind their farmhouse was a vast assortment of beautiful black walnut trees. Each one calling out to the boys with their hearty branches that grew stronger and healthier with each rainfall and each sunny day. After much study and debate, they finally settled on the tree the family called "Ginny's Tree." And as far as trees go, she was a real beauty, some 50 years old with the most robust branches located precisely where needed to provide sturdy support for a treehouse.

It was one of those bright, crisp autumn afternoons when the smell of the oncoming winter was overtaking the last sweet smell of summer. The corn crop had been harvested, and the hay bales stacked neatly in the barn. Mom was busy canning green beans, and dad was tuning up the old John Deere. The Shack, as the treehouse was now referred to, was beckoning.

I filled my thermos with lemonade, put an apple and banana in a brown sack, and grabbed the latest Nancy Drew mystery. It was a perfect afternoon to spend in the treehouse, lost in one of the four lazy afternoon delights: reading, snacking, daydreaming, and napping. Somewhat of a recluse, the treehouse had become my little space. A space where I could escape from the bewildering and painful realities of adolescence. A space where blues turned into brilliant yellows and luminous reds.

Entering The Shack, I surveyed its condition and congratulated myself on the curtain I placed over the one window the week before. Slowly, the treehouse was taking on a more 'girl' look thanks to the lack of brothers and some sewing assistance from my mom: curtains, a shelf, a few vases with flowers, and a rug now decorated the inside. Hay sewed inside some leftover cloth remnants not only served as a nighttime mattress but also as an extremely comfortable daytime chair, almost a recliner.

An hour into Nancy Drew and my eyes could barely focus. The cool autumn breezes dared me to stay awake, a dare which I lost without much of a fight, dozing off into the most delightful dreamy state one could imagine.

When I awoke, my thirst and hunger led me to pour a cup of lemonade and begin working on the apple. And as I chomped on the delicious treat, I contemplated other upgrades to The Shack. Perhaps a picture or two would add a little something to the walls, or another hay-filled mattress would come in handy when inviting a friend for a sleepover. My mind was racing with a young girl's enthusiasm. It was all mine to do with as I liked, my little world.

I glanced out the little window to see if my dad was still working in the barn, and as I did so, my eyes caught sight of the large rock situated next to the base of the old Walnut. For years I had noticed the inscription "Virginia Rose" carved into the rock, never paying much attention. I suspect it was a maturing inquisitiveness that led me down the stairs of the treehouse that day and straight into the barn where I found my father still tuning that old tractor. "Daddy, I said, who was Virginia Rose." My father smiled, pleased I think, that his daughter wanted to know a little family history. "Have any of that Lemonade left?" he asked.

We climbed up into the treehouse, and as we sipped the refreshing juice, he told the story of Virginia Rose.

On a stormy autumn night in 1886, my great grandmother gave birth to a stillborn daughter. Out of her fourteen prior pregnancies, this was the first stillborn; the first child not to have made it at least through year one. Three other children had succumbed to influenza, one at thirteen months, another at two years, and the third child died just shy of his fifth birthday. They were buried in the cemetery directly behind the old church.

During those years, the loss of a child was common enough in rural America and, as cruel as it may have been, burying a child was frequently looked upon as the loss of labor, not the loss of a precious life. There was no time for grieving or funeral arrangements, especially for a baby that never drew her first breath. So, the morning after the stillbirth, the small lifeless body was wrapped in an old blanket, placed in a wooden box, and buried beneath the cooling shade of one of the many walnut trees behind the old farmhouse.

After shoveling the last scoop of dirt on top of the burial box, my great grandfather returned to the fields, my great grandmother to the kitchen. Life returned to the farm, much like it had been before. The birth of a stillborn child was considered a non-event. No celebration, no tears - forget, move on, there is work to do.

But one child was not able to move on. My grandfather, who was twelve years old at the time, felt a deep sadness for the little stillborn baby. A sadness he thought odd none of the other family members appeared to feel. As he passed her grave each day, he would be overcome with an uneasiness; something was missing, something was not right.

Walking home one day, he passed the old church cemetery and noticed his sibling's' three graves. There and then it dawned on him what had been so troubling - the sister buried under the walnut tree had no name and no marker. Determined to rectify the situation, that evening he made a cross out of tree branches and rope. He placed the cross on the infant's grave along with a beautiful white stone that took every muscle he had to carry it from an adjacent stream. At least now, he thought, there would be some tangible sign that this child existed.

But he was still bothered by the lack of a name. He wanted to write a name on that stone, to give his sister an identity. Slowly he approached his mother with the idea, unsure how she would react, but he wanted her blessing. Even more, he wanted to know she cared. And that quickly became apparent when tears welled up in her eyes as she stared out the back window at the grave. "I was going to name her Virginia Rose." Why don't you write that name on the stone.”?

For the remainder of my great grandmother's life, she would place wildflowers on Virginia Rose's grave to mark the baby's birth date. Perhaps a ritual that stemmed both from obligation and a sense of loss. And family lore has it that the old lady talked more and more about Virginia Rose as she grew older, even referring to the walnut tree shading her grave as "Ginny's Tree."

Over the next generation, " Ginny's Tree" grew even broader and more robust, giving much-needed shade during those stifling, humid Missouri summer months. And the bounty of walnuts dropped from the branches provided many an afternoon snack as well as being found at the family table in cakes, breads, salads, and soups. The cross on Virginia Rose's grave disappeared sometime during my father's childhood, but the large rock marking her grave remained. My father and his brothers permanently carved the name Virginia Rose into the rock, followed by the one date.

My curiosity satisfied, and with the sun hugging the horizon, my dad and I left the treehouse. Supper was on the table, and we were both hungry. It had been another memorable afternoon in the treehouse, but then treehouses were made for memories.