We’ve been ever so fortunate to own a home inside the
Catskill State Park in upstate New York. The land surrounding our home is and
will be by legislative decree,
“Forever Wild”. One time
when our son, William, was little, we began our trip back to New York City and
William called out from his car seat, “Goodbye trees.” William loved the house. He grew up
there hiking, sledding, skating, biking, exploring, building snow forts and
rafts, doing the things that make a boy happy. Certainly his time there with us
gave no indication that William would say a final goodbye to trees and all else
when heroin grabbed hold and took him from the world over two years ago.
At the end of May last year our family planted a tree in
memory of William. A young weeping
willow now stands at the bottom of the meadow below our house. His mother Margot and I, his sister,
Elizabeth Hope, his then almost four-month old niece Josephine Hope, and her
father, Johnny Anderes, all joined in the planting to remember and celebrate
William. I was able to give young
Josephine her first ride on my garden tractor, cradling a bonneted baby in one
hand, as I drove ever so carefully downhill to the planting site. That trip
made Josephine the fourth generation in our family to ride that tractor. William rode it as a baby and as a
child, and learned how to operate it as a teenager. It’s old, it’s worn, and it’s a memory machine.
We’ll always be able to look down the hill and see “Will’s
Willow.” At least that is our
intention. Saplings, like
children, need care and protection.
We provided plenty of rich soil and mulch when we put it in the
ground. We wrapped the young trunk
to protect it from insects and small gnawing creatures. We put up fencing to protect it from
deer and any other large gnawing creatures. Despite our best intentions, we can’t control
everything. Although we
planted the tree where it would ordinarily get all the water it needs to meet
its thirsty demands, an unusually dry summer caused us to worry. The summer was followed by a brutally
cold and snowy winter. Nature
wasted no time reminding us the willow shares the fragility of life with
William. By planting a new life in
our midst we ran the risk of losing yet another life. A life we’ve invested with extra meaning. Many of the trees we’ve planted on our
property have thrived. Some have
not. None of them have had a name attached, or even been chosen as a species
for their particular significance.
We’re asking a weeping willow to both memorialize our son and somehow
make our grief palpable.
Nature’s vicissitudes continued well into the spring in the
Catskills. There was snow three
days in a row over the last weekend in April. Waiting in New York City, the weekend gardener in me was
getting itchy. Practicality
dictated it was too cold to begin anything in the garden and I remained in the
city. The weather finally turned for the better the very first days of
May. I headed north, the brilliant
green of new leaves along the Palisades Parkway slowly turning back to eager
red buds as I drove further north.
Less forsythia, more daffodils.
The willows, however, are among the very first to show off their new spring
garb. All along the way, splotches
of light yellowish green proclaimed willows happy and proud in the chilly new
spring.
Those same splotches served to awaken a dormant anxiety in
me. Had Will’s Willow made it to
this new spring? Would I have to
call Margot and Elizabeth and share bad news? It was clear I was keenly invested in this tree, more so
than I’d been aware. By the end of
my trip most everything was bare, especially my anxiety. Only clusters of new daffodils promised
more spring to come. I drove in
our driveway and headed not, as I usually do, to the house or the garden, but
immediately down the slope to the lower meadow. From the top of the hill the willow looked barren. Fretting,
I continued on downhill. To my
great relief, the young branches were lined with small green buds, preparing to
burst forth. Spring comes late to
our house, especially late this year, but Will’s Willow was on schedule. I rushed back up to the house to phone
the good news to Margot and Elizabeth.
Trees, like children, require faith and patience. Especially when they’ve had to face
trying times. Sometimes even faith
and patience aren’t enough. It’s a
tough lesson to learn. It’s a
tough lesson to remember.
As I climbed back uphill from Will’s Willow I recalled a
favorite line of mine from a poem by Richard Wilbur. “And the found voice of his buried hands rose in the
sparrowy air.” Now on to the
garden.