Slaughter of the Roundy Tree

SLAUGHTER OF THE ROUNDY TREE


The festering hand of the government is everywhere: taxes here, legislation there, tenets everywhere; the political regime creeping into my life and meddling. Virtually no part of my life is immune to governmental interference: from birth to death and everywhere in between, they want a piece of me. Origins of my suspicions of political authority can be pinpointed to unlikely circumstances.

Circumstances rooted in a tree.

This was no ordinary tree; The Roundy Tree, with its extraordinarily distinctive design, was a child’s paradise. The myriad of bizarre-shaped branches sprawled out in multiple directions. The enormous trunk protruded horizontally from the earth, providing abundant room to explore the tree’s numerous intricacies. My father contributed to my passion for the tree by mounting a Tarzan-swing and tree-house. Roundy was my favourite place, with countless hours spent in its secure embrace: climbing, reading, resting, playing.

One afternoon our family convened in the kitchen, as was customary when my parents had important information to share. My father was a mastermind at inspiring curiosity in his children, particularly with positive news; however, we knew these get-togethers were also used to transmit negative messages. Judging by my father’s disposition, I suspected this was one such occasion.

With a sombre tone completely devoid of life, my father, whom I unequivocally trusted, broke the news that Roundy would meet swift doom. My dad’s stoic appearance eliminated any doubts this was a delusion, a nightmare, or that - completely contrary to his character – he was playing a cruel joke.

Getting smacked in the face with a brick would have been more welcome than what I experienced at that moment. Someone reached into the depths of my being and yanked out my soul, and I was immobilized, unable to prevent it.

The silence following Dad’s message was ephemeral, as my siblings and I launched a mutiny. I demanded to know why the tree had to come down and more importantly, why my father, whom I deemed omnipotent, stood idly by, doing nothing. Why would he not stop this; why raise the white flag so promptly? Did he not understand what this tree meant? Did he realize that permitting its destruction was tantamount to sacrificing his children?

Miraculously, my father calmed us down, wisely suggesting we reunite a few hours later.
I dashed to Roundy, climbed its comforting branches, and endeavored, unsuccessfully, to block the surging tears. I crawled into a towering perch, buried my face in its asperous limbs, and sobbed. I struck that branch with every ounce of vigor I could muster and surprised myself by using vocabulary I had subconsciously adopted from disreputable peers (no doubt I would have been force-fed a soap-sandwich from my mother had she been in audible range). Then, I continued weeping.

In a more civilized but still incredulous state, we congregated again, and my Dad elaborated. The government would remove all trees necessary in order to expand and improve the road. Dad tried in vain to elucidate: this was beyond his control, and there was nothing he could do. The trees would be removed whether he complied or not.

My father sounded strikingly akin to adult characters in Peanuts. All I understood was that the government would kill Roundy, and Dad seemed indolent. The icon of my father’s perfection shattered, as foreign emotions of resentment surfaced.

In the weeks before the slaughter, I devoted every moment I could with Roundy. I relaxed on its enormous, copious limbs; I snuggled in between two corpulent branches to read a book; I ran up and down its gargantuan trunk; I swung from its branches.

And I struggled with my thoughts: astonished at my Dad’s failure to take action; trying to come to terms with the inevitable; how I would cope after the tree’s demise.

The day of butchery arrived.

I climbed Roundy one final time, watching in disbelief and increasing horror as colossal, steel monsters ripped trees from their roots, plunging them to their death.

It was Roundy’s Day of Reckoning.

I descended, staggering to where my family stood, and watched in trepidation as Roundy’s limbs were shredded and fed to another atrocious, metal beast.

I glanced at my father.

<i>Look what you’ve done. How could you?</i>

I looked at the “government.”

<i>I hate you. Ruthless, murdering thieves...</i>

I stared at my Dad, who observed the destruction with consternation. His poignancy confused me, as I saw him wipe away a tear he attempted to conceal. I studied his face: his lugubrious expression demonstrated that he was troubled.

<i>Perhaps Dad is not to blame after all.</i>

As quickly as the massacre began, it was over. All that remained was plenty of overturned soil.

The weeks, months, and even years that followed were difficult; indeed, I grieved.
When it was time to play, I instinctively ran to where Roundy had stood only to be confronted with the harsh reality of its absence.

I oft imagined it was there. The only way I could have been more sentimental was if I had erected a cenotaph and placed flowers beside it. Eventually, I found other avenues for childhood entertainment, but nothing replaced Roundy, forever etched in my memory; to this day, family conversations concerning the farm invariably reflect fond recollections of the tree.

While I came to acknowledge my father’s innocence, it has taken longer to forgive the government, who I believe epitomes bullying, enforcing policies with little concern for those who disagree. As an impressionable child, I interpreted the government’s actions as cavalier and palpable disregard for others, and my present attitudes about the government were likely influenced and shaped by that experience.

The road is a vast improvement from what it was during my childhood: a convenient, major thoroughfare I use regularly. I now note the relevance of the expansion; however, the methods the government implemented to obtain what they wanted are what I vehemently oppose: manipulation and interference.

The government is here to stay; I have learned to co-exist with them, realizing that just because I am rendered powerless by their control doesn’t mean I have to like it.

There may never be another Roundy, but the tree will be perpetually engraved in my memory as a haven for a boy seeking solace and adventure.

Theoretically, that means Roundy still lives.

(1,044 words)