The Sound of Trees

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NEW PROMPT:
Today, your challenge is to write a piece entitled, “The Sound of Trees.”

Some trees, you see, rattle their seedpods in time to the salsa. Others whistle as they boogie. My favorite are the trees that sway their skirts in whispers of delicious gossip while waltzing their leaves in a one-two-three.

Listen in to the trees in your yard or neighborhood. I dare you.
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All my life, I’ve felt an affinity with trees. Growing up in a small New England town, I enjoyed the smells and sounds made by trees of all species, but mainly pine. My most secret “hidey-hole” was at the end of Lake Street opposite the Catholic cemetery. There encircled by a few pine trees, I would share my innermost secrets with them. If I then waited patiently and quietly, I would hear their soft, understanding voices high in the green needles of my nonjudgmental friends.

Determined to leave my childhood secrets behind, I moved to northern California at the age of 28. Now, the term “tree hugger” could especially be applied to me. In this special state, many people ran from their unhappy lives to a place where their differences didn’t matter. I must be honest and say I immediately felt right at home.

My first California tree was a huge palm filling the backyard of the home I owned in Oakland. I named it Peter after a boyfriend I once dated back in Boston. Both were sturdy, rather dull, but made me feel safe. My palm Peter was usually quiet except when the wind rattled his fronds. It was a comforting sound in this neighborhood where the sound of gunshots became all too common.

Only once did I have a problem with Peter. One afternoon, I thought myself handier with tools than I was and attempted to trim back some of those noisy and rather sharp fronds. In the Highland Hospital ER, one street over, I remember blushing when I had to explain about Peter puncturing my arm as I bled all over their grimy floor.

Years later, after having that home broken into too many times to count, the last time became more than I could handle. When a man with his face covered with a blue shirt held me at knifepoint, my home and Peter went on the market that afternoon. Even years later, I still miss hearing Peter the palm lulling me to sleep with the dry fronds’ gentle rattling sound.

My next arboreal love affair was the reason I bought my current Hansel and Gretel home in the rural setting of Sonoma County wine country. In the front yard stood a magnificent cedar towering more than three stories high, and it was love with him at first sight. Because of the green moss on some of the lower limbs, only one name came to mind…Spock.

Over the next few years until 2003, Spock always sheltered me from the bright afternoon sun. Most every summer afternoon, the wind would race from the nearby fields into my front yard and set Spock to singing. I would smile while listening to this wind turning the eight wind chimes hanging from Spock into an afternoon concert. The noise might have annoyed my neighbors, but nobody ever complained. In fact, I’d see smiles on the faces of people passing my home while out walking their dogs on our country road.

Sadly, the music ended one extremely windy November day. While I worked in the back of my small home, a loud crash coming from the front had me hurrying to see what happened. There blocking the view out of the long front window was Spock. He lay stretched out on his side and dangled dangerously off the tile roof over my bedroom. In his fall, Spock managed to take out my outside fuse box, part of a neighbor’s roof next door, and the fence in between our two homes. I’ve always thought, though, Spock chose the time to crash when I was out of danger in the back of my home.

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Five days later, after I’d been without power for all that time, the tree removal company left with the last of the Spock, except for one long limb. Much to the annoyance of the man who does my yard work, this peeling limb remains on the ground under where it once proudly swung in the breeze, heavy with wind chimes.

With no insult intended for the death of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, or the Big Bopper, the song “The Day the Music Died” is how I felt that sad day in November 2003. The sound of trees no longer fills my yard or my life, and I’m all the sadder for this.

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Microsoft Word count = 725

"The Writer's Cramp"  daily winner for 05/17/09
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