I've always been an arboreal creature.
When I was little, my mother would almost always find me under, or in, a big chestnut tree that had miraculously escaped the builder "flatten-the-earth" rush to erect post-war housing. I loved playing with my wooden pull-toy dog, Snuffy-Sniff, under her huge branches. I'd climb up into those inviting arms, using my tricycle seat as a stepladder to grasp the first accommodating limb. There I'd be, dangling happily, my bright red overalls making me easy to spot.
Trees are essential, still, to me. I love how they arch high above my street, beautiful in all seasons. Their lush, sheltering, leaf-laden branches offer cool refuge in summer; thigh-thick, gnarled roots spill from their bases to amuse themselves (and annoy local officials) by heaving up Traverse City's sidewalks. Intriguing holes, high up ample trunks, are homes to birds, who vanish into them with worm-crammed beaks. If I'm lucky, I'll see babies poke their heads outside each spring, to gasp at the vast world far below.
Big, strong trees command respect. Roped planks attest to their willingness to accommodate swings for youngsters over the centuries. Even today, an inviting "nanny" tree tempts me to sway and dream, or climb as high as I dare. I find them irresistible.
When I was about 10, I was constantly persecuted by Douglas, a large, gangly bully who was determined to rip at my long, thick, ribboned braids and kick my schoolbooks into dusty Sutton Street, because he could. I'd never exchanged a single word with him, but he taunted me tirelessly, baffled when I wouldn't react.
I knew, with a child's instinct for these things, that on this day he would try to really hurt me. Today he was dangerous. The nuns had "rulered" his hands: they ached, and now one piercing, white-hot glance from him in the drinking fountain line told me where he'd vent his rage.
When we children were released from school I ran, with every ounce of speed I could summon, down the dusty road to a huge oak tree. Like a squirrel, I climbed it from the back, out of view, higher and higher, panting with the effort. He thundered down the lane moments later, hot with frustrated rage and pain, screaming my name.
But I had vanished. Baffled, he kicked the trunk, hurled stones and spit incoherent threats. It never occurred to him to look up. If he had, it wouldn't have mattered. I clung to that solid bulk, enveloped in an ocean of leaves, my green plaid uniform skirt blending perfectly with her lush foliage. That oak "nanny-ed" me when I needed it most.
Soon after, his family moved; my world felt fresh -- and new.
I cherish my garden's trees; each has a distinct personality, or a particular shape or talent to distinguish it. Reincarnated tree parts have become my fence, ornate posts, flowerbed containment boards, and our lovingly restored benches. Strong, wide, hand-cut boards have formed, and now lavishly decorate, Sunnybank House. Heavy, handmade, arched wooden doors introduce my secret garden retreat. Wooden handles anchor my tools; wooden spoons stir my porridge, and trees are transformed into my favorite well-thumbed books.
Today a black squirrel peeped out of his roomy hole-home in the big maple along the wet street. I gazed out of MY bedroom window. Together, high and dry, we quietly enjoyed the spring rain, sheltered and safe in our snug, woody havens, grateful that "Nanny" trees, in whatever form they assume, lend solid reassurance and constancy to Mother Earth's children.
Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at blairdee@gmail.com. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at blogs.record-eagle.com.
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