The Cottonwood by Liz Flaherty

You've probably heard me mention the tree before. It's a cottonwood in our side yard. When we first moved here in 1977, she was hardly more than a sapling, but cottonwoods grow fast. They irritate a lot of people, and I've heard them called "junk trees," especially when they're spraying their cotton far and wide, but I've always loved ours. Two of them have come down, and it was good they did--they were too close to the house for safety. 

However, the one in the side yard is still there. She--yeah, I'm almost sure she's a girl--has been struck by lightning more than once, so her main center trunk is dead. Other, lesser trunks have risen around it, though--although we lose one once in a while. The cottonwood is unsparing of herself when she does her spring cleaning.

Take it down or leave it an argument I've won, so far. Cutting the tree down is mentioned occasionally at our house. So far, my saying, "Let's just wait until we have to," has worked, and she's still standing there with her center bare and dead and life climbing all around her. 

The birds love that tree. In the morning, they make excited swoops from it to the suet feeders. The squirrels run up and down and all around it, leaping from the live trunk across the dead center to another leaf-laden branch. If I were a mother squirrel, my heart would be in my mouth the whole time. 

I have always loved trees. We had boxelder trees in our backyard growing up. One of them had swings hanging from a strong, low-hanging branch. It also had a wonderful arrangement that was perfect to sit in, hidden from view. When Mom urged me to stop reading and go outside, that seat in the tree was as far as I got--I took the book with me. 

Speaking of Mom, I was as brokenhearted as she was when they cut down the trees beside our road for the purpose of widening it. The road never got that much wider, but the roadside became silent and unstoried. We no longer picked up windfall apples for pies, no longer gazed in amazement at the tree shaped like an egg, no longer picked up walnuts. 

It gave me the same feeling I get looking down State Road 16 in Denver where trees were taken down. The street looks nice. The curbs. The porches on almost every house. But it's not a pretty street anymore, not sheltering, not do-you-remember? 

But our cottonwood is still standing there in the yard. When leaves are on, she looks like a one of those trees gnomes live in in storybooks; all that's lacking is the door. And the gnome. 

The deer who use our yard as a passthrough appear from behind its wide trunk. The orioles and cardinals make bright spots in its leaves. The evening sun, spectacular on its own, silhouettes through the branches and makes you stop and look, breath suspended for just a glorious moment. 

When we moved here, we talked about moving that cottonwood and its neighbor to the north to different places, but we never did. Now one of them is a cornerstone of our property--although I'm not even sure if it's on our property--and the other is the one in the picture. Beaten and suffering from the involuntary amputation of its strongest limb, it still gives shelter and beauty and pleasure every day and asks nothing in return. 

Relationships are like that. If friendships have lasted a long time, they probably have some bumps and bruises on them. Long marriages are held together not only with love, but with scar tissue as well--many of the branches get broken along the way, and sometimes it's as if lightning has indeed struck. 

Like the tree, relationships offer shelter, pleasure, and respite for the soul. And like our cottonwood, relationships are often messy and require more upkeep than seems fair. But you can't have one without the other, and I don't want to give up either.

Our tree can stay for a while, at least. She seems sturdy to me, and the wildlife and I all like her. It's another thing to feel grateful for, that relationships and trees prosper even when they're not always pretty. 

Have a good week. Plant a tree. Be nice to somebody. 

P. S. I’m assembling a surprise package for a newsletter subscriber, a Window Over the Sink blog commenter, or someone who reviews one of my books prior to September 15. Just drop me an email at lizkflaherty@gmail.com with "Prize Package" in the subject line. (A separate entry for each review!)