Myron and Franklin

If you looked up the definition of the word ‘friendship’ on the Internet – you would get about 3,560,000,000 results … eyes bugging, right? More than half of those might actually deal with your question specifically.

If you asked Franklin Madison, age 35, to define friendship – he’d give you his best thinking ‘stare’ behind his bi-focal, and say, “Myron.”

When Franklin was growing up in Empire Crossing, North Carolina, the professor of literature at Columbia was a typical little boy … except he had a large head, wore thick glasses because of strabismus – a condition that caused his eyes to cross and an over-protective mother named Pearl.

So, he didn’t get a chance to do a lot of things that boys his age could do or would do. His mom was afraid he would get hurt, or that the boys would make fun of him as they usually did, and crush Franklin’s little spirit.

Franklin did get bullied sometimes – but it was mostly verbal, and normally didn’t last long. The boys in his class who made fun of him were few – Rusty, Matt, Shayne, and Wyatt. They were like that to everyone different than them – well-to-do, athletic, and popular.

He tried to explain to his mom that he was OK and that he didn’t mind not getting invited to parties or spend-the-night things or to play ball. Those weren’t his ‘cup of tea’ anyway.

Franklin was a reader – an avid reader – and he loved to write stories – short stories. His dad, Charles, said, “We have no problems with Franklin … just give him a pen, a notebook or a book to read, and he would be content for hours.”

Now, Franklin had a few friends from church, and in the neighborhood – misfits like him – not necessarily accepted by the popular crowd, but not shunned either. They were labeled ‘nerds.’

But they were not a socializing bunch of kids – unless they were at church or school or some after-school mandated activity.

So, Franklin was always at home, outside on the porch, exploring the woods, following his older sister, Maggie around, and there was a book close by or a notebook and pen.

Then, of course, there was Myron.

Myron was Franklin’s best friend. They saw each other whenever Franklin visited his grandparents in Murphyville, Georgia.

They were an odd pair, but no one seemed to mind their friendship. Myron was taller than Franklin, and a little bulkier. Franklin was the talker … so the two friends balanced each other out.

His grandparents didn’t mind the friendship at all … when Franklin spent time with Myron, he read … he laughed … and he seemed relaxed.

Franklin would tell Myron all his secrets, what went on during the day, and making up stories for his ‘Great American Novel,’ or at least that what he told his grandma when she asked what they would talk about.

Myron had never been in their house, and never spoke a word to Franklin’s grandparents – nothing verbal anyway. He had this look about him that spoke volumes.

Franklin would laugh when his grandpa would try to get Myron to talk to him.

“But G-Pa, he is a tree.” Franklin would giggle as he swung in the hammock that was tied to Myron’s branches and the hedges.

Franklin’s grandpa would shake his head. “And why did you name him Myron?” Shelby ‘G-Pa’ Madison would put his hand on Myron – a tall, misshapen Norway Spruce that had been on the property for at least 70 years.

“I don’t know … It was the first name that popped in my head … it is like an old man’s name … no offense … and it just sounds like a name of a character,” Franklin stared up the middle of the tree. It had once been a beautiful tree – it still was, but just an odd kind of beautiful. One year, G-Pa had decided it would make a cool picture or wintry scene if the tree’s branches had icicles on them.

He rigged up a sprinkler system through the tree one night, and the next morning, he was right, the branches were full of ice and made a pretty picture. But the ‘pretty’ didn’t last long. The weight of the ice was something that the limbs couldn’t take, so they broke in split places – giving the tree an odd shape. People would call the tree ugly. Maggie, Franklin’s sister, said the tree looked like it belonged in a Stephen King movie.

Franklin wouldn’t hear of it. He studied the tree, and made friends with it. One of the ways he did that was to give it the name. Franklin would read under the tree, have picnics, and even slept outside in a tent under Myron. When a storm would come, Franklin would stand at the window, while everyone was anxiously watching the wind and shaky limbs, and say, “Be nice, Myron.”

And Myron would for the most part … only losing a few little limbs here and there. G-Pa said one day, “Franklin is the tree whisperer.” His grandmother said, “He is the Myron whisperer.”

And that is what the whole family called the tree – Myron the tree. Franklin called Myron his best friend.

Fast forward to a few decades ...

Standing outside his grandparents’ back door, Franklin, at age 35, his head seemed to shrink a little, and his eyes didn’t cross anymore, looked at Myron.

His grandparents had passed more than a decade or two past. His parents, both in their 70s, had moved into the home after remodeling it.

Franklin cocked his head to the left, and then to the right. Putting his hands in the pocket of his jeans, he walked past the porch to Myron’s trunk. He put his hand on it. “Hello, Old Friend! How are you?”

A breeze swept gently through the tree’s pine needles. It felt good. Franklin smiled. “I wrote the book finally, Myron. You know it is about? A little boy and a tree named Myron.’ Franklin patted the tree trunk again, and ran his hand through the branches.

Inside the house, Franklin’s dad looked at his mom as they watched out the window. He grinned, “Franklin and Myron.”

Franklin’s mom laughed, “Best friends with a tree … who’d have thought it?”