The Willow Tree
The willow tree exhibits tremendous flexibility - branches bending
without snapping, learning to adjust to life rather than fight it. The long
dangling branches provide a type of security blanket and hiding place. The
outside world cannot harm you under this tree.
The first
time I can remember going out to explore the country I was six years old.
The line of tall poplar trees gently swaying in the summer breeze seemed far away, an adventurous trek that Rick, my nine year old brother, and I, felt sure we could handle. Mom wasn't quite as confident, but agreed to let us go. The poplars must have been at least two or three miles from our house, past some farm fields and smaller growths of trees. Mom packed our picnic lunches into knapsacks and said goodbye, probably hoping we would turn around soon, but not discouraging us from the trip.
It was hot, cloudless, humid July day. Rick and I began our trek easily enough through the suburban neighborhood backyards until finally reaching the first field. Mom was out of sight now. Sweat soon began to work its way through our shirts and shorts. Brambles stuck to our socks and sneakers. We climbed over small fallen trees, through uncut knee high grass and cornfields with stalks leering over our heads. The poplar trees never seemed to get closer.
Rick had never-ending patience, with me, for the weather, bugs, and other people. It was a quality that for some reason made me get frustrated even faster, maybe because I had no patience.
The bugs began a relentless attack on our necks, faces, arms and ears. It was a merciless assault under which we had little defense. I began slapping at them, my arms twirling in circles like an out of control airplane propeller. "Would you stop that?" Rick said, "it won't help". "The bugs are driving me crazy" I yelled and began running through the cornfield to find refuge.
Rick caught up to me as we came upon a small clearing and a stone fence that was perfect to sit on and rest awhile. A gentle breeze helped to keep the bugs at bay.
We sat in silence for quite awhile before finally agreeing to turn around. I had been defeated by the distance, bugs and heat and Rick didn’t want to fight with me anymore. Arriving back home, Mom seemed relieved; she had probably been "working" in the backyard the entire time, watching to see where we would end up. Mom was great though, she didn't make fun of us, just pulled out an old blanket from the house and brought out a fresh pitcher of homemade ice-cold lemonade for Rick and I and placed it under our large, old willow tree in the backyard. The branches hung so low it was hard to see us from the house, so it was still a good adventure.
We moved from that house a year later, never having another opportunity to travel to the poplars or embrace the safety of the willow tree again.
The line of tall poplar trees gently swaying in the summer breeze seemed far away, an adventurous trek that Rick, my nine year old brother, and I, felt sure we could handle. Mom wasn't quite as confident, but agreed to let us go. The poplars must have been at least two or three miles from our house, past some farm fields and smaller growths of trees. Mom packed our picnic lunches into knapsacks and said goodbye, probably hoping we would turn around soon, but not discouraging us from the trip.
It was hot, cloudless, humid July day. Rick and I began our trek easily enough through the suburban neighborhood backyards until finally reaching the first field. Mom was out of sight now. Sweat soon began to work its way through our shirts and shorts. Brambles stuck to our socks and sneakers. We climbed over small fallen trees, through uncut knee high grass and cornfields with stalks leering over our heads. The poplar trees never seemed to get closer.
Rick had never-ending patience, with me, for the weather, bugs, and other people. It was a quality that for some reason made me get frustrated even faster, maybe because I had no patience.
The bugs began a relentless attack on our necks, faces, arms and ears. It was a merciless assault under which we had little defense. I began slapping at them, my arms twirling in circles like an out of control airplane propeller. "Would you stop that?" Rick said, "it won't help". "The bugs are driving me crazy" I yelled and began running through the cornfield to find refuge.
Rick caught up to me as we came upon a small clearing and a stone fence that was perfect to sit on and rest awhile. A gentle breeze helped to keep the bugs at bay.
We sat in silence for quite awhile before finally agreeing to turn around. I had been defeated by the distance, bugs and heat and Rick didn’t want to fight with me anymore. Arriving back home, Mom seemed relieved; she had probably been "working" in the backyard the entire time, watching to see where we would end up. Mom was great though, she didn't make fun of us, just pulled out an old blanket from the house and brought out a fresh pitcher of homemade ice-cold lemonade for Rick and I and placed it under our large, old willow tree in the backyard. The branches hung so low it was hard to see us from the house, so it was still a good adventure.
We moved from that house a year later, never having another opportunity to travel to the poplars or embrace the safety of the willow tree again.
