JUST A SPECK OF GREEN

Intro:

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Burnished gold, ember red, delicate brown and just a speck of green. My favourite tree, an enormous silky oak has surprised me again. I stand with a kind of reverence, as I go down memory lane. Whatever our problems, the oak tree is a constant reminder of strength and beauty.  All my troubles seem to melt when I see her. She is back to her old ‘mother hen’ tricks, and I respond as of old, with adoration.

I had grown up with that tree. In those early days, the garden was sparse, but the oak in the back yard was my favourite. One of Dad’s patients gave him a small oak branch in a pot, an offshoot of his own tree. It looked as fragile as Dad felt, for at the time, in the ‘sixties there was an outbreak of measles running rampant, and Dad as the local GP, in the days where there were no set hours in practice was hardly ever home. Mum knew he loved it and tended to the tree with almost as much love and devotion as she gave to Dad and later to us. I was three when Jane arrived; a little sister when what I wanted was a brother. The family was complete, but I ran outside to the tree, the trunk was steady and strong enough for me to hug it, shedding tears of disappointment. She, the tree, was also good at keeping secrets. As we both grew, I would sit for hours under her protection talking to her and imagining answers. I had an imagination that writers make a living from, but I was a lonely little boy at times; I still am in some ways.

Over the years we had our share of family troubles, most of them, were simply stepping stones of strength: disappointments, disciplines, heartache and growth intertwined with the rewards of tenacity and patience. I fancied in those situations that the oak tree was brooding over us much like a mother hen. She was strong sturdy, almost majestic, provided there were not too many children myself among them, climbing her branches and hanging somewhat reminiscent of Christmas decorations in various shades of dirt and noise. Such was school holiday adventures in the days when life was simple, roads were rough and you learned to take that rough with the smooth.

One night there was an electrical storm, the garden took a battering. My sister was quite frightened and for the first time, I played the role of the protective elder brother finding that Jane was not that bad after all. We watched the storm from the bedroom window, the oak tree swaying. She looked a sorry sight and much of her foliage was ripped off in the wind.  Jane who was only three was agitated seeing the ghostly spectacle as a threat. Finally, with a hint of the reality check I would notice later in life she said

“Paul, I’m scared.”

I heard myself say

“Well, you had better come into bed with me then.”  

Before you get the wrong idea, Dad looked in on us a little while later and carried the sleeping Jane back to her own bed. Just as well, she wriggled like a worm, but we became better friends because of the storm, and I fancy Jane loved the tree as much as I.

Over the years we saw the tree grow, towering over the other trees nearby. Her mood changed with the seasons sometimes regal, sometimes a real Prima Dona, always the focal point of the garden especially on family occasions. We all took her for granted I suspect. 

Last year was in many respects a very difficult year culminating in a drought of rather epic proportions. Of course, we city slickers do not have it as rough as our country kin. They see their crops and livelihood taking a battering, we complain of water restrictions and the price of fruit and vegetables because it could not possibly be scarce in this land of plenty. It was a hot summer; we had to use buckets instead of hoses to water the garden. Many of Mum’s plants shrivelled and the oak tree looked like a tired old lady. It was decided that whatever else died we would look after the Oak, digging a trench around her to water her via the bucket. She was doing well until…

One night just as we were thinking of going to bed, I smelt smoke. Looking out the window I saw that the side fence had caught alight. Earlier that evening we smelt the rich aromas of barbequed meat, we suspected the barbeque had not been turned off properly. I rushed out in old clothes, Jane’s husband following me, Jane watched from a distance, tears running down her cheeks but determined to be there. Turning at the wrong moment I saw that the leaves were on fire; her branches almost melting in the heat rather than igniting from the flames. Heedless of my own safety I ran with buckets to try to quell the flames. The wind worsened. My attempts to save my tree seemed futile; I succeeded only in burning my flesh.  Jim valiantly continued to minister to the tree. It sounds as though he was preaching, instead, he was talking gently to the scorched trunk promising to take care of her. I fancied my brother in law and mate loved the tree as much as we did. It was clear to Jane I needed an ambulance, and so I reluctantly left the oak in Jim's care.

It was a trying time for all of us. Through weeks of treatment, getting used to my scorched skin and other sundry adjustments, I pictured the oak tree: discovering she did survive though like I, was a little battle-scarred. In one of their visits to the hospital, Jane and Jim brought a snapshot of the tree.  It included a new green shoot, just a speck of green, as though to say “I’m not dead yet Paul, which means you don’t give up either.”

One of the nurses, Maggie, looked in on me. We had struck up a conversation on her previous shift so she was eager to see the photo. 

“Paul, what does this photograph tell you?” she asked

“Not to give up too easily,” I replied.

“Make that not to give up.” her correction was gentle yet swift., much like the friendship that developed.

Home at last. It is autumn, chilly yet beautiful. So, when I stepped outside onto the veranda, the leaves of my oak tree were on fire. The riot of autumn colours soothes my inner being. Life is not without its seasons.  Autumn, the last hurrah before the age of winter.  Winter lets us hibernate and get over the moans. Spring regrowth and rain. Summer sometimes treacherous oft times beautiful.   Are you surprised that the speck of green I am imagining now is in the shape of an emerald ring for Maggie, the love of my life?