Gathering At The Tree Stump

He knelt down by the fresh stump, his finger counting the rings.  

“Thirty seven,” he said.  

The group of young men talked about the tree that had stood in the small grove of pine trees in the prison yard. I asked them to look at the tree stump, and the story it told about the life of the tree, planted when this youth correctional camp first began, the tree a witness for all the young lives that had been transformed here. 

They were astonished that tree trunks had rings, that the rings could tell the story of the tree, of winters and summers, good years, and lean, of the fertility of the soil, the amount of rain.  Other young men reached out, too, touching the rough wood cut by the chainsaw, feeling the sawdust, the ooze of the pine pitch.  

“Smell it, taste it if you want,” I said.  “You can taste the freshness of pine.”

Only one man was brave enough to take me up on my offer, touching his finger to the fresh gob of pine pitch, his eyes widening when his tongue confirmed my opinion.

“This is where turpentine comes from,” I said.  

His puzzled look told me he had no idea what I was talking about.  

“Turpentine.  Paint thinner.  It comes from pine trees.”

He nodded, taking in the new concept, gaining a new appreciation of the trees.  Until now they just offered shade, where young men could gather for a conversation, maybe a visit with family on a sunny day.  Three times a day, on the way to chow, they passed by these trees. 

These trees were just familiar things, ordinary pine trees, until we stopped to count the rings and stick fingers into pine tar.  

We talked about the pine tree’s story, how it had thrived its first five years. Then, the other trees started to shade it and compete for nutrients.  We looked, seeing how the growth slowed, the rings tight in its final years.  History was being told in a new way.  

We had spent the morning talking about plants and gardening, how to think about designing a place of beauty in the world, a place of quiet and growth, places of new beginnings.  Their questions of their teachers showed their eagerness to learn new ways of nurturing a garden, to make something more beautiful through their work.  

In the greenhouse, they had repotted young seedlings, making way for tender young roots to grow bigger, helping the coming summer’s vegetable garden prosper by their early spring work on the  potting bench.  

With cut down cardboard boxes and potting soil, and bits of plants cut from the teacher’s garden, they fashioned their visions of what their own gardens and yards would be.  Pebbles and colored stones became rock walls and paths, and tiny paper cups were ponds and pools. Their dreams came to life. Proudly, they showed the rest of us how they wanted their homes would be, how they would bring beauty and nature into their lives.

While we made labels for seedlings, and chose the plants that needed repotting, several young men and I talked about our own lives and why we were gardeners, how that job fit into our lives, of pruning and weeding, and choosing the right soil and fertilizer for our journeys.  

Looking at the stumps and the remaining trees, we talked about the planters of the trees, what they envisioned, how they planted the trees, what they wanted to accomplish.  We talked about why we plant trees, and how we care for them.

When someone mentioned nurturing young lives, the young men silently nodded.

As rain moved in, we left the pine tree stump, and the rest of the pines, having new answers for how the trees came to be there in the prison yard, and how the remaining trees were going to grow.  One man turned back, looking at the stump, his hand rising to his mouth for one more taste of the pine.

He smiled, and stood just a little taller.  

4/4/15

Planting The Future

“One generation plants the trees, the next gets the shade.”

Chinese proverb 

Sequoia sempervirens, the coastal Redwood tree, can live up to 1800 years and grow as tall as 380 feet (200 feet in Oregon).  Their natural range goes north as far as the southern Oregon coast. They like the warm coastal fog of California and lots of rain.  And, one of the most spiritual experiences in the world is to hike through the groves of giant redwoods in the Redwoods National Park on a warm, foggy day, in the midst of ancient trees.  

I’ve got a few of them growing here, but I wanted some more.  Part of my soul lives in the giant coastal redwoods of California and I’ve nearly always had a redwood tree growing on my land.  I like the promise of starting a forest of giant trees that will live for hundreds, maybe several thousand years.

Today, I planted three more.  They won’t get to “giant size” by the time I leave this Earth, but I’ll know they are growing, taking root here, and heading skyward with their lacy leaves and thick red bark.    

I’ve always planted trees.  When I was a little kid, my folks had a cabin on 30 acres in what we then called the Tillamook Burn.  Several forest fires had raged through the area in the 1930s to the 1950s, turning the forest into a collection of burned snags and ferns.  So, in the late 1950s, my dad and I would go out with bundles of little Douglas fir seedlings, and our Pulaski (a combination axe and tree planting blade) and plant them on the hills and ridge above the cabin.  The deer ate a lot of them, but enough survived, so that when I drive by the place, I can see a nice forest there.  I like the idea that I had something to do with that.

When I was seven, my dad and I planted a few redwoods on the place we moved to.  Those trees are still there today, about sixty to eighty feet high, doing well, and getting pretty big.  And, the little guys I planted today, well, they are on their way, and will soon be spurting new growth towards the sky.  The fog will collect on their leaves, and big beads of wet will drop down to the earth at their roots.  And, someday, they might be the giant redwoods of the neighborhood.  They will be happy, making their home here, century after century, providing some shade, and peace and serenity to the generations that will come after me.

A few years ago, a friend gave me some little Monterey Cypress trees.  I wasn’t sure they would make it here, too cold and wet, I thought.  But, I babied them along, repotting them, keeping them watered in the summer, and they’ve done well.  They have nice healthy buds for this year’s growth, and big, thick root systems.  Today, I planted them, too.  They’ll be a good addition to the groves of trees I’ve been tending.

The other cypress trees I’ve planted here, Leyland, are doing well, too.  I read up on them today, learning that they are a cross between Nootka (or Alaskan) Cypress and Monterey Cypress.  In their native habitats, they didn’t get to crossbreed, but an English botanist experimented with them in the late 1800s, and they do well in moderate coastal climates.  We’re a bit of Alaska and a bit of California here, which explains why the cypress like it here.  

The rains are moving back in now. The little bit of sunshine I had between storms, which was just enough to grab my shovel and do my planting, is gone now. But, my trees are there, in the rich dark soil, the southwesterly breeze of the coming storm dancing in their needles.  They are ready to put down roots and make this place their home.

3/10/2012