A Tree-huggers Atonemnet

A Tree Hugger’s Atonement

I'm an admitted tree hugger. I celebrate Arbor Day likes it's New Year's eve. I've been involved with the planting of about 50,000 trees. One of the highlights in my life was accepting the Sacramento Tree Foundation's "Tree Hero" award for my work group. Yes, I like trees. I appreciate them even more, now that I have lung issues, and need every last molecule of the precious Oxygen that they produce.

I have a long history with trees. When I was a kid, my brother and I watched an old black and white TV show where some pioneers cut down a towering tree and yelled TIIIMMMMBERRRR! Just as it fell to a thundering roar. It looked fun and exciting.

The next day, we walked two miles to the tractor repair shop on our farm and gabbed an antique 2-person saw that hung on the wall for decoration. We dragged the 8-foot long tool back home and were intent on cutting down my Dad’s pride and joy, the only pine tree in the whole area.

The big saw was heavy and unwieldy, but we managed to get the course teeth started into the bark. We stood on opposite sides of the tree and pulled the big saw back and forth as quickly as our little arms could work.  With every pull, we just couldn't wait to yell "Timberrrrr", just like we saw on TV.

We were about halfway through the tree trunk when my dad skidded to a dusty stop in his pickup. He leapt from his truck and started in on us. "Why the hell would you want to cut down a tree? Trees are shade! They give us Oxygen! Why would you cut one down? Damn it boys!

He sent us to the house and left us with one final admonition, “Trees are for planting, not cutting down!"

The tree later died and blew down one night during a storm. We didn't even get to yell TIMBERRR. Dad let it lay there for over a year so that I could feel terrible about it every time I had to step around it on my way home from school. Even as a kid, I knew I'd have to make up for it somehow, someday. Standing up on the stage to receive the Tree Hero award took a 40-year load off my conscience. Maybe I've paid my penance.

While writing and thinking about my history with trees, I started to realize that we could learn a lot from them. They don't speak much or write books, but they've still got some messages to share.

When I was a teenager, my Dad sent me to do a task on the farm that I felt was way beneath me. It involved cleaning up after an incident with our portable trailer toilet. Use your imagination, and you can probably guess why I felt I was too good for such a messy job. So, I complained and told him how I felt about it.

Pops told me that nothing was beneath me and that we're to do any task necessary, and then do it with the same pride that we'd show in our favorite work. He saw the look on my face in hearing his remarks. You know the look. The ones that teenaged boys give their dads when their dads are trying to teach them something that they don't want to hear.

Pops then asked me if I could envision the tall and beautiful trees up in the mountain forests? I said of course I could, I love those trees. He asked me to pick one in my mind and describe it to him. I had no idea where he was headed with his question. So, in my typical smart-assed teenager tone, I described the tree. It was true that I loved the mountain forests and the pine trees, so I described them in such drippy sweet words that it would make a 17th century love-struck poet blush. I described the tree's piney smell, its towering height, and the beautiful green of its needles. I went on. I described how the tree looked against the blue sky and then how beautiful it and the others looked when covered by a fresh snow. I told him about the whispering sound that the wind made when it blew through the forest. I really poured it on.

When I was done describing that breathtaking tree, Dad nodded and then pointed to a wooden powerline-pole about 40 feet from us. He said, "That's the same tree, stripped of its beautiful branches and made to stand naked for years, holding up our stupid high-voltage wires. He pointed again and said, "Look at it Rawge. It's naked and 500 hundred miles from home and yet it stands there as tall and strong as it did in the forest". He then told me in his country vocabulary that I need to always seek after the humility of that tree.

I guess trees can teach us something.

5 years ago, we moved into a new office building at work. I pitched the biggest fit and got the only corner office. I had 2 windows, and one was directly behind my computer screen. When I looked up, I saw blue sky and green trees. When I first moved in, there were a pair of Monterey pines that I could see all day. They were tall and wide. Their trunks were 30 feet apart, but the canopies were so big, their tops grew into each other, and it was impossible to tell one tree from the other.

During the first winter in the office, one of the trees blew over during a windy rainstorm. That tree's trunk then lay at a 45-degree angle away from the other tree and their tops no longer touched each other.

One day, five years later, I looked out my window and realized that the tree had slowly grown one limb back in the direction of the other tree. It had taken years, but the tree had reached the other tree and they again touched. It had been knocked down, but for half a decade, it had quietly put its growth and effort toward its goal.

If my dad was here, he'd tell me that I need to seek after the patience and determination and the perseverance of that tree.

I guess trees can teach us something.

I still find myself occasionally looking up into the green canopy of a tree and remembering my Dad’s words about everything that trees provide. I can finally add absolution to their list.