Trees

One of the things I love about my current neighborhood is all the mature trees. I love looking at them throughout the seasons; even in the winter, they are beautiful. This weekend, I didn't feel very well, so instead of tending to my to-do list, I lounged on our back deck and, in between napping and reading, I looked up at the trees and watched their branches swaying in the breeze—sometimes, it seemed from my vantage point, precipitously.

I also remembered from my childhood a large tree in our neighborhood. I could see it from the swing-set in our backyard. I was a huge swinger. I would swing every day during the summer, often for hours, singing to myself (and possibly—but not probably—for the benefit of any of my brothers and sisters and neighbor kids who were around). Looking straight ahead, I could see through the small, square, covered back porch of our long-suffering and always-patient neighbor Mrs. Roberts to the kitchen window of the Seidlemans' house. After breakfast and lunch, I would see Mrs. Seidelman at the sink, washing out their dishes. She would wave merrily to me, and I would wave back to her.

But if I looked to just a bit to the left, there was the huge, full, storybook tree, far off in the distance. I have no idea what kind of tree it was, but it looked like it was miles away (though it couldn't have been more than a few blocks), and magical. With my bat eyes, I could see the individual leaves rippling in the breezes, and I would imagine the lands that lay beyond. One of my favorite fantasies was of a meadow, green and beautiful, with birds, and butterflies, and dragonflies that didn't fly too close, and my mom with a picnic basket. She wasn't harried and hurried as she was so often taking care of the ten of us. She was sitting relaxed on the ground, her legs sort of side saddle. My dad was there, too, with a ball and bat, ready to play baseball.

We really did have picnics when I was growing up, along the banks of the Fox River. We really would play baseball, or Frisbee, and often, my dad would help us fish (anything we caught, we took home, froze, and ate during Lent). I don't really know how my parents were able to wrangle this…ten kids, a picnic, games..and make it fun? Because it was fun. Maybe like the trees, they understood how to sometimes let the breeze run through them playfully, and how to sway in the strong winds just so.