A Backyard in Prose

Before leaving Columbus I tried to write about the things I'd come to love about the sweet sticky South--I tried to write about my trees.

Through days of reflection words flowed freely in my mind, often bringing me to tears of gratitude and frustration. I did mean to record my arboreal musings, but the time preceding our Westward move was busy and full. Too late I paused, putting pen to paper, and found that my thoughts had stilled.

The words I'd so hoped to say are, quite simply, gone and will not be recalled.

This is all I have left:

"Growing up a desert-dweller, you will"
"when you move to Georgia"

Unlikely first lines to a draft incomplete.

Though the right words elude me still, I would like to say this: having spent my young life in the high golden desert, the seductive canopy of a forty foot maple is a temptation I can not resist.

A way down in Dixie each home for sale is buried in blankets of fallen needles and the dull crunch of last year's deciduous greens.

Forgetting the actual house where you'll live, you'll see in your mind's eye warm afternoon's spent in the shade. You envision the mounds of red fallen leaves, the laughter of children with chilled running noses, catch a glimpse of winter's gray light seeping through windows patterned by shadows of each sleeping limb.

Your husband might ask "Wouldn't you like something newer?" "How about something with a little less maintenance?" No. Without hesitation you insist that the shade dappled lawn be made yours. Only after you've signed and been handed the deed do you begin to remember you are after all, in unfamiliar territory, unaccustomed to much but sage brush and scrub oak.

Trees aren't always what they seem. Yet, having sworn your allegiance, their burden is yours to bear.

Young roaches that drop to your roof from the tall boughs above aren't able to find their way home, and so make their way into yours instead.

You'll discover a gluttonous tick burrowed deep, engorged, and delighted--determined to stay. A doctor will ask "Do you live in the woods?" and you'll sheepishly answer "why yes, yes I do."

Two failed seasons of limp tomatoes and hollowed squash will prove that without any sunlight, your garden will fail. You'll sit and you'll think and decide in the end, nine trees must go. Nine trees is the price you'll pay for self-sufficiency. As men turn their saws to the dogwood and elm, you'll excuse yourself calmly, make your way to the door, and weep for the loss of each blossom and stem.

From December to May, while tornadoes churn, you'll cower anxiously in the hopeful safety of your porcelain tub. Majestic oaks, tall brittle ancients, uproot in the night, crashing through windows, side-swiping the porch, passing by, once again, the rooms where your children lay sleeping. Stepping out the next morning, you see houses destroyed, buildings over turned, a city in ruins. You know just how lucky you are and give thanks.

Then one sunny day, on your way to the street, you'll hear a strange sound coming out from the depths of a prickly pine. Stepping nearer you realize it's thousands of mouths, the crunch of an evergreen being devoured where it stands. An expert "tree guy" will confirm your fears, ravenous beetles have hollowed its core, and while kicking the trunk just to show you he means it, the tree will begin to moan and collapse. "It's likely" he says "that they've reached others too." The solution is simple, fell them all quickly and grind down the stumps, but it will cost you a pretty penny for the tall pine alone. From where you stand 30 more can be seen and you stop counting then because it's useless to argue. The safety of your children depends on the health of your trees. So you say "Go ahead," and stand back and wait, knowing full well that today could be it--you'll lose your shirt for those large lofty pines.

Every worry you face in that alien land is all on account of those big green damn trees. When your last day arrives and you finally leave, backing out of the driveway you think Well good riddance! though you know in your heart that those big green damn trees, growing tall on the laughter of good Southern folk, are what, in this place, you love most of all.

And back on the sod of your childhood home, where mountains erupt from a dry barren land, you'll long to return to your corner of Eden.