Pair Trees

I.

Two people were planting a chestnut tree. Or more, since they had four chestnuts. One of them surely would sprout. One would become a tree. The chestnut was full of promise and life. That was what mattered. It was a promise that would never be betrayed and if it was never to be realized, the reason would be that it had been abandoned or forgotten.

At this point we seem to be reading a parable. Not ‘you reap what you sow’ or anything pertaining to some religion. Instead, this could be one of those life lessons or teachable moments. Frankly, those interpretations are even worse, way beyond clichéd. Maybe we can salvage this story by looking a bit more closely.

Who were these people? It seemed clear that they were a mother and her daughter, as already noted, given the age difference and their similarity of appearance. Dark, reddish brown hair, green eyes, the fairest skin possible. The type of skin that looks like it is spun from Galician flax. They could have been characters out of an old fairy tale. That was the impression created by their careful hands and speech, their quiet gazes.

Some might wonder why they were planting this tree (or, more accurately, the seeds that might produce a tree)? Perhaps it was because they served as custodians of this important tradition. Perhaps they were unaware of their motivation or felt the need to keep it to themselves, speaking little but purposefully. (That was evident in their expressions). Still, some impulse had to be insisting that they carry out their shared task.

It was definitely a shared task, taken seriously by both participants. However, this wasn’t enough to explain the planting, not really. Slowly and deliberately, two bodies sought the right place to receive the chestnuts. Shoulders, arms, fingers were concentrating on the soil.

Where were these two people? They knew they would need the right amount of sun and rain, the right temperature, the right breezes, to coax the little brown spheres to life. It was not that easy for us to figure out where they were, but the mother and the daughter were not intimidated in the least. Naming the exact location might be detrimental to our focus on the significance of the act.

An anonymity of location might allow the planting of the promises in any back yard or forest. Places familiar to many. Encouragement to keep going.

What did they say, this pair? They used words sparsely, but the limited flow of speech seemed perfect for the task they were carrying out. Some of the words they uttered were hard to discern; others had an odd context and for that reason sounded nonsensical. It may never be possible for us to open the shell that held the two of them (metaphorically) together. It may be that the content that bound them verbally was less important than the manner of expressing it: gently, patiently, rhythmically. 

Magosto was one word they exchanged, slightly with laughter and slightly in awe of the ancient custom they were fortunate to practice. Although similar customs existed in Celtic lands beyond Galicia in the northwestern corner of Iberia and still survive, few know about the depth of meaning of the term:

Originally, the magosto was a celebration based around a fire and roast chestnuts that Galicians held to honour the harvest. A fire on the cold nights of early November encouraged people to tell stories and old legends. Groups of friends also hold magostos at night with fires outdoors, chestnuts, baked chorizo, young red wine, songs, and stories to continue the tradition. The individual elements of the tradition, including the queimada drink, are purifying symbols of life.

[Editor’s note: Usually short stories don’t have footnotes like academic articles do, but just in case, we are including the internet source of the above text.

https://www.turismo.gal/recurso/-/detalle/fi-or-000013/festa-do-magosto?langId=en_US&tp=97&ctre=261

It comes directly from Turismo in Galicia, so the information should be accurate.]

For these two people, there was no association with the classic Christmas song about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. It wasn’t part of their culture, nor could it be. Nor should it. 

The song lyrics attribute sentimental feelings of love and family to a setting with a warm glow. The glow might come from food and drink, too, but the goal is everybody feeling warm and happy. The escape from daily preoccupations. 

Today we see how traditions that are longstanding have also been associated with, and made better, by fire. This occurs perhaps in a manner similar to Celtic practices where a burning nucleus brings people together and ‘works its magic’.

However, we modern-day people dreaming about chestnuts roasting on an open fire should not forget that few of us have ever eaten them. (The only way to get chestnuts is in the grocery stores, and they’re usually from Italy. Usually not very fresh, either.)

Invented magic. Wishful thinking. Not what fire, chestnuts, and groups of people once were like, eons ago: bound together and bound to the area where the tree grows and produces its fruit. The mother and daughter knew nothing about the Christmas song, but they did know what chestnuts meant for them.

[Editor’s Note: Sorry for intruding again, but we had to touch up the main text here and there so readers would get the cultural references. We hope we’ve done a seamless job and that you didn’t even notice. And that said, there are a couple more cultural explanations to help clarify references.]

The mother and hr daughter were among those who knew that when chestnuts were boiled they were called zonchos.

They also knew the lines from Rosalía de Castro’s poem. Everybody knew those lines, which were are popular as all the poetry she wrote after hearing workers in the fields singing.

They knew children wore necklaces of zonchos when going to a cemetery on the Day of the Dead or All Souls’ Day. Rosaries with irregular beads, too large to be real rosaries. Chestnut zonchos to be eaten once the little wearer was safely outside the camposanto [holy ground].

The mother knew slow stories about the ways human lives intertwined with the tree that gave them so much.

The future chestnut resulting from the planting by mother and daughter would set down roots that would interlock with others. Something associated with the past, generations past, would grow. It would be something more significant than a group of persons roasting (imaginary) chestnuts but talking about events of the past year, or something similar.

[Final Editor’s Note: Some might complain that there’s not much in this story about the symbolism of the chestnut in Celtic cultures, but there’s a plethora of info on the internet about this very topic. Have at it! However, the real purpose in this note is to apologize for letting this part get away from me. It’s ended up sounding like a self-help guide or teacher’s manual, very preachy. I’m working on improving this, just so you know.]

II.

Two people were planting a black walnut tree. It wasn’t a seedling. The problem was, few people plant black walnuts, at least where these two lived. They had a reason, however. They were a mother and a daughter. It was mostly evident in their body language, the way each held her head, rested a hand on a hip, things like that.

When the older woman began to tell the story, the younger one cut in, saying she’d already heard it. That was unexpected. Silence.

Why were they planting? (Asking the same question, looking for different answers.) Those who are very interested in the reason might want to read a story titled “The Black Walnut.” It might be on the internet somewhere - maybe on this website - , but if not, it’s not hard to imagine that the mother remembered such a tree from childhood. 

It’s not unusual to have memories associated with at least one tree. I know I do.

There was just one problem: all they had for the planting was one very old walnut, a dried-up drupe. Chances it was going to sprout were next to nil. Why bother then? 

[Editor here. Sorry, but before you read further, I apologize for the Bible talk that follows. The author of this story insisted on keeping it in.]

The answer is obvious: every seed is a symbol of hope, a belief in the future. This isn’t an idea made up for this story; it was probably first called that in the Bible. Now where the Bible writers got that, we’ll never know. Any time we have to wait for something to sprout and grow, we hope that will happen, we want it to happen.

Which is not to say we understand our reason for deciding to plant the seed in the first place.

These two people, one older - the mother - and one younger - the daughter - may not have had the same reason for planting the dead walnut. That might not even matter. The fact is they both were doing it, had decided to take part. Neither looked sad, but there was no laughter between them. The planting was a necessary task, and it had been accomplished.

[Narrator’s or Editor’s Note: Allow me to tell you a story - a true one - about a little girl in a faraway country who planted a red plastic bead beneath a tall chestnut tree. That way the little red seed would have someone to look out for it when it sprouted and grew. I don’t know about the little girl, but I am certain that is just what happened: over the years I’ve seen it. This is a story about a seed, but the concept of a seed being a source of life and growth. In that sense, I am standing up for the idea of calling a little ball of red plastic a seed if it has sprouted its own story? What do you think?]

III.

Two people are at this moment planting what might be hazelnuts, which used to be called filberts (a name that has a curious origin, by the way). The nuts are at least six years old now. She hadn’t dared plant them yet. She was afraid nothing would happen. That the link from one soil to another was definitely broken.

She had brought the hazelnuts - she really wasn’t sure if that’s what they were - back from Lampoldshausen, the village in Germany where her father’s surname had originated. She had brought back a small stone, too, meant to mark the spot where the nuts would be planted.

Nobody else in the whole world had been interested in what she considered her own ‘pilgrimage’, how she had accomplished it on her own, but mostly how she’d felt being there. So nobody knew how hard she cried, wracking sobs, frightening her because there was no reason to react like that. She was still bursting with the need to pass on what she had felt and seen.

She wished she’d asked her mother more questions, just everyday things, lovely, learning-moment things.

One way to alleviate the need was to write a story about her trip. She is doing this now. You might have figured that out already.

Another way, she knew, was to plant the nuts, which were probably hazelnuts, with her daughter’s help. It didn’t matter that her daughter hadn’t asked many questions about the ‘pilgrimage’. Her daughter had never commented on the photos she’d posted of the lovely little village, but that wasn’t indicative of anything. Many things, both good and bad, are left unsaid when we love somebody.

Perhaps the mother hoped that while they were selecting the best spot to plant, then digging the hole and marking it, some of the story she held inside might sprout and grow at last. After six years of silence. 

One could always hope.

Why plant the nuts? 

Why did the traveler (pilgrim) select nuts (as opposed to some other object) to bring back? It could have been a simple bending over and seeing the nuts, grabbing a few as souvenirs. Or maybe it was the view from beside the tree: the lush, broad, emerald valley, all beside a corner of the cemetery where no original family members remained. Bones in many places - Venice as well as a tiny German village - had to be cleared out to allow new interments. 

She had traveled far to reach the village, tongue and throat numb all the way. You can’t go home again. This is not your home to return to. But you tried very hard. You have been faithful to what you were told, even unraveling mysteries never suspected. You have honored them, and in so doing, have honored yourself.

[Nattaor I mean Narrator here: Everything was going fine until some editor on my shoulder got romantic and religious. I won’t let that happen again, you can bet your bonnet on that!]

Author’s Epilogue:

Why have all three of these planting stories involved trees? Why too have they all been nut trees? This was not a conscious decision. It concerns me a little.

Why are a mother and a daughter the ones planting? Why not a widower with six children, everybody with shovels and seeds? Why not two men who are each a hundred years old and wish to honor someone? Why not a toddler tossing little plastic balls into a hole that is the ‘target’?

We’ve barely touched on tree myths. 

There’s also the question of the symbolism of the hazelnut or hazel tree.

You can find a very good quote from here, from the Wisdom of Trees:

http://www.thegoddesstree.com/trees/Hazel.htm

Actually, the quote is so good, I think I should end this story (and maybe the other two as well) with it. After all, you know something about the symbolism now.

Hazel, the tree of wisdom and learning, adds its strength to the bright fire burning.

Plant trees and learn. All trees matter.

Grow: grow wise and grow wisely.

Keep your wisdom in a safe place.

PS: Untangle this story if you dare.