Tag: Stories Page

  • Nebraska’s Biggest Cottonwood?

    In 1972, my grandparents, Otto and Alma Betke, my best friend Dan Danner and I were bumping across the Nebraska pasture when we discovered a giant Eastern Cottonwood, so big I took a photo of them, stretching their arms against the trunk to show the massive size.

    Grandma reported it to the Nebraska Fish and Game – they measured it: 38 feet around the trunk! That same year, the Cottonwood became Nebraska’s official state tree.

    Coincidence?

    Maybe.

    Gram also wrote to Nebraskaland magazine about our discovery, asking how many trees this big existed in Nebraska.

    Today’s record holder? 37.2 feet. 

    About the fishing trip – yes we caught bass, crappie and bluegill, but the biggest catch of the day was the story of a tree so grand it might still hold the record!

    Story by Kirk Walter

  • Remembering

    Remembering walks in the forest with my dad, Hillary Valentine, 

    warm summer days, cool fall evenings, 

    sweater weather shared with sis and mom, 

    watched storms come in, 

    Super 8 movie of the trees with the changing leaves,

    yellow, orange, gold leaves piled on the ground,

    kids rolling in piles, staining clothes, who cares, 

    30 years from now and still recall days with Dad and little kids and trees with love. 

    Story by Debbie Gallas

  • My Mother Loved Trees

    When my parents bought their houses it stood on an empty lot devoid of any landscaping. She bought 5 pine trees for the front of the house and every time she trimmed them she would root her cuttings. I inherited the house 65 years later—it is surrounded by a think barrier of yew trees which provide shelter for sparrow and rabbits year round and provide a sanctuary sense as I sit in my front or back yards. She also rooted 4 gingko trees from one existing tree. Thank you, Mom for the haven you created.


    Story by Nona Flores

  • White Oak

    We bought our house in 1999 and proceeded to completely change the landscape. My sister died in 2000 and we put  in a memorial garden for her. Then a miracle happened and my granddaughter was born in 2001. As she grew she became increasingly interested in our landscape project. When she was about 3 or 4 we had to replace a dying curbside maple. We replaced it with a white oak, which will not doubt become the mightiest tree in the yard. We told her that it was “her tree”. she then made us assign a tree to everyone in the family. mine is a paper birch, her mom’s is an autumn lazy and her dad’s is a buckhorn fern that lies in the memorial garden. Her white oak is growing tall, strong and beautiful—just like her!

    Contributed by Candice Thomas, Naperville, IL (grandmother to Cat Bradley!)

  • When I Was Little…

    When I was little, my father made me promise him that I knew
    the trees
    were not talking to me.
    It was all right to talk to them but I must know they were not responding.

    Your allegory disintegrated my skin,
    truncated the chapters, changed the leaves.

    Yes, of course, I yielded
    and silently apologized to the Elm.

    Language was then only my second language.

    I always forget that
    the first moment of consciousness is intimacy:
    kindred spirits, falling in love, magical mystery moments.

    Your version betrayed a collective concern about chance.

    Hearing hearsay brought me sorrow and consolation in learning
    intimacy is a foreign land where they speak language.

    I knew who was taking care of me then
    and later wondered if sadness brought on the Dutch Elm Disease.

    Last week we had to cut down the god tree,
    so we could live.

    We had to assassinate Ailanthus,
    and stop living in the past.

    Should I have just told my father that It had approached me first?

    The Tree of Heaven
    is now a stump wound,
    a keyhole preserved for eavesdropping.

    Contributed by Leah Mayers, Chicago, IL

  • Walk Tall

    Walk tall…as the Trees

    Live strong…as the Mountains

    Be gentle…as the Spring Breeze

    Keep  the Warmth of Summer…In you Heart

    And…The Great Spirit will always be with you.    Anonymous

  • Walk along the creek

    When my sister and I were returning from our beautiful walk along the creek in Sedona, I looked up at the great wisdom tree and it seemed as though its arms were stretched out to hug me!  WOW!  I love this tree!

    Contributed by Cathy Loffredo

  • Up in a Tree

    The south is home to some of the biggest live oak trees I’ve ever seen. The ones that I remember most fondly are the kind with the gigantic limbs that swoop down close, in some cases all the way, to the ground.  It was amazing growing up around these trees and experiencing them as a child. While growing up, my sister and I would climb trees almost on a daily basis. It was fun and yet magical. Every time I see a big live oak tree like that it brings back the best memories!

    Fast forward many years later, I’m now in my early 20’s and still climb trees every chance I get. Their roots are set deep into Mother Earth. Being musically gifted )on Native American flute and other instruments) I wanted to write a song that captures the essence of being in that tree – carefree and joyous.

    If you’re interested in hearing this song, log on to my website: http://jonnylipford.com and look for “Up in a Tree” from my most recent release, “Turn The Page.”

    Hope you enjoy the story. Peace!

    Contributed by Jonny Lipford

  • Two Trees Still Standing

    I live above 32nd street, in an apartment that overlooks a several acre lot where Dawson Construction is building an office facility for Western Washington University. I have grown accustomed to the early morning sounds of bulldozers, grating metal, and trucks beeping as they back up. But this morning, an unusual sound caught my attention around 7:30 am. It was a loud, slow, and reverberating Craaack. Then a pause, then another loud Craaack. I was still in bed, but the noise was so eerie that I got up and shuffled into the living room to peer out the blinds. Through the slats I saw a small yellow steam shovel ramming itself against a 30-foot-or-so tree on the edge of the sight. The tree was cracking open and falling over slowly, stubbornly, its roots still grasping the earth. Beside it was the next victim, another 30-foot-or-so tree with hardly any leaves on it. It must have already been sick. But, closer to me, on the furthest edge of the lot, a full acre from the three story building that had already been constructed, there was a third tree, at least 40-feet tall, with long healthy branches and lots of green leaves.

    For the record, the trees were minding their own business when the travesty occurred.

    The steam shovel backed up, took aim, and slammed into the first tree again. I yanked the blinds all the way up and slapped my hand on the glass. “What are you doing?” I said out loud. No one could hear me, off course. I was about 50 yards away and across the street.

    I watched in horror as the steam shovel bludgeoned the tree over and over with its shovel. “No!” I yelled through the glass. “Stop! What are you doing?” But the shovel just backed up, dug with iron claws at the tree’s roots, bit into them and ripped them up. My stomach turned as the machine backed up, took aim and slammed into the tree again. Three gut-wrentching cracks later, the tree was leveled.

    I wanted to do something, besides standing there slapping my hand on the glass and crying out, but I couldn’t take my eyes off what was happening. The bulldozer backed up, rolled over to the second tree and started hacking at the roots.

    Should I run across the street in my pajamas and throw myself in front of the tree? I wondered. No, maybe I should quickly get dressed and then run over. I had to do something. I could call someone like the police or scanning the site I saw a truck trailer with the word DAWSON in short caps. The second tree was already beginning to lean. If I was going to save it, I had to act fast. I ran to the kitchen cabinet and grabbed the phone book. “D-D-D-D,” I said aloud. My hands were shaking as I scanned the columns. “Okay, D-A D-A D-A-W! Where is it!” I already knew I was going to cry. I found the number, ran for the phone and dialed. As an automated voice on the other end of the line went through a list of extensions, I watched the second tree fall over. Now the shovel was backing up to begin its assault on the third, healthiest tree.

    “Nooo!” I screamed hitting the glass with the flat part of my fist this time. Finally, the receptionist picked up. “I need to talk to the person in charge of the construction site on 32nd street,” I said.

    “Do you want a manager on site or here in the office?”

    The shovel started scraping at the roots of the healthy tree. “Does the manager on site have a cell phone?”

    “No, the phone is in the trailer on site.”

    “Then I’ll talk with the person in your office.”

    “And you’re with?”

    “I’m with myself,” I said.

    “Oh, just a moment, please.”

    “Hello, this is —________,” I could tell the receptionist had alerted this male voice that there was a hysterical woman on line two.

    “Hi, I live across from the 32nd Street construction site for Western and I am standing here watching one of your guys tear down three trees with a steam shovel. Is that absolutely necessary?”

    “Hmmm,” he said. “I don’t think we’re taking down any trees you must have the wrong site.”

    “I’m looking out the window at a trailer that says DAWSON in big letters and I’m telling you a guy in a steam shovel is pushing over a perfectly healthy tree as we speak. I’m standing here watching him do it. There can’t possibly be a good reason for that.”

    “Hmmm. Exactly how big is this tree?”

    “It’s at least thirty feet tall and he’s pushing it over with a F—ing bulldozer.” It was a steam shovel, but I was too upset to care. The healthy tree started going over.

    “Alright,” he said, as though he finally believed me. The tree was frozen in mid fall. What’s your name?”

    Who cares, I thought. It’s too late. “Christina Katz,” I said trying hard not to cry. With every last ounce of indignation I could muster I said. “There are only two more healthy trees left on the whole lot and I want to be able to look out my window and see them in the morning. Is that too much to ask?”

    “Okay,” he said softly. Uh, what’s your phone number? You sound like you could use a call back.”

    I managed to give him my number without losing it. I didn’t expect him to call me and he never did.

    The steam shovel dragged the fallen trees into a pile. Then it started hacking at them while they were lying on the ground. I couldn’t stand it any more, I went into the bedroom and collapsed into a pile of tears. I haven’t cried that hard since my dog died. When I went back to the window a few minutes later someone who looked like a foreman was running over to the steam shovel operator. He shouted something and then the steam shovel operator resumed hacking at the trees.

    I wondered if the trees were dead yet. Then maybe they wouldn’t feel anything, but I doubted it. Trees aren’t like people. They’re more patient. They live more slowly and they die more slowly. That’s why we need to keep them around. That’s why we need to just let them be.

    Today, I’m proud to report that I can look out my window in the morning and see two trees, still standing.


    Contributed by Christina Katz, Bellingham, WA

  • Trees Have Names

    A Fall day in freshman biology class…Sister Mary Rita tells us to look out of the classroom window and tell her what we see. “A tree, Sister!” was the general response. “Yes, yes, yes…now what can you tell me about it?” “The bark peels off and makes a mess. My baby brother tried to eat some yesterday.” Muffled hee-hees were then silenced by a disapproving:”Thank you, Angela. Can someone else add something? Sister then points to me. “Well, the boys on Fernon Street call the seed pods itchy balls and make a game of pelting us girls walking home from school. And I can personally attest to the fact that they are itchy ’cause my brother always enjoys dropping and squashing one down my back.” More snickers followed and were quickly silenced by Sister Mary Rita’s now higher pitched voice showing exasperation and asking:”Do any of you know the NAME of this marvelous tree that provides nourishment to baby brothers and artillery for older ones? My goodness, young ladies, 14 years
    surrounded by Sycamore trees…she feverishly writes the name on the blackboard breaking the chalk. TREES HAVE NAMES!” And DO THEY, I thought…how apropos…Syc like sick and amore, love…image of my brother pelting me with seed pods…Sycamore=sick brotherly love. The next day Sister Mary Rita asks us if anyone can remember the name of the tree discussed the previous day…silence… then a solitary hand…mine..”Sycamore!” Sister Mary Rita smiled with relief. ;-)

    Contributed by B. Gudauskas

  • Part of the Stone

    On 1/1/06, I lost my brother, sister-in-law & nieces in a random home invasion. My brother and I had always been great lovers of trees-partially because we’d grown up on army posts and never had many trees around our houses. One of the reasons they had bought this house in their neighborhood was because of the beautiful Chestnut trees in their backyard (trees that they unfortunately lost during Hurricane Isabelle). When I was trying to decide what to do for their headstone, it just seemed right that I would make a tree part of the stone. It had to encompass all of their names as well as their birth dates. Once it was done, the tree offered its leaves to shade and protect the memory of their lives and the 4 swallows flying up to the sky. On the back of the headstone, we quoted the last Beatles’ song “The End”….and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make”…..it was all appropriate for my brother, a musician, and lover of trees. Trees now represent family, love, strength and inspiration to me.

    Paige Harvey

  • Tree I Slept Beneath

    When I was 8 years old..that was 1958…a very significant year for many folks…I would sneak out of bed in the mild weather, when my folks were asleep and creep out to a large spruce that was in the very back of our property.

    In there I had a nest of blankets and that’s where I kept all of my totems and special things. I’d sleep out there and at the first light sneak back to my bed.

    In that place I was safe and I truly became the “Indian” that I believed myself to be. Out there…my blonde hair was gone and I had long dark hair and brown skin. The spruce make that so.

    One night while I was out there, I saw a light coming closer and thought…”uhoh…dad is coming to find me” As the light came closer…it wasn’t dad at all, but a Native man with a torch. I lifted the heavy branch and looked out at his glowing presence.

    “child…I am your great grandfather and I have an important message for you”. I wasn’t afraid…I was comforted by him. “I will always be with you in everything you do…You have a huge future ahead of you with an important path to walk. It’s called the Good Red Road and if you stumble or falter or come up against trials that you can’t imagine over coming….remember this my child….You are Up to the Task.”

    With that he faded. I slept with a smile that night. And all through my life, now 60 years, I’ve always remembered his words. They’ve brought me back from death…. and beyond.

    It was the tree that I slept beneath that was the energy that facilitated that night…love and peace…lynnann

  • Tree Friends

    I have many tree friends, and tree friends in other States, that led me to create and write many books as I shared with them and spirits and devas that came through from them many exciting incidents. One Tree, a young Oak Tree, allowed me to enter and I saw with the Faerie Queen, an elf, a centaur, and watched a procession of dancing fairies depicted as lights whilst I supped Acorn tee atop a large mushroom. I have sat in a tree to prevent loggers from destroying it, have helped to prevent the removal of many beautiful trees from existence in order to turn it into a housing estate. The Goddess Cerridwen came through from a Sugar plum tree, and wrote a poem in my head. The mighty elms that lined the streets where I grew up, to Peppercorn trees, and one in particular whose shape resembled a tea pot,ready to pour tea. Such majesty resides in trees, their energy, their shapes, the beauty that houses within. Who could not be inspired when in a forest,and in particular the Oak, when you feel the energy, the presence of trees. I have trees outside every window, some small, some large, each maintaining its own beauty and song. Music rushes through the leaves of trees and when the wind plays with the branches and the leaves music abounds. Within an acorn, the tree resides. May it continue to be so.

    Contributed by Carole Lane

  • To a Fallen Tree

    I had seen it

    knew it was there

    huge and towering

    over our insignificant lives

    Living for centuries

    as the landscape changed.

    Then one day I drove past.

    They were cutting it down

    to make room for a turn lane.

    This ancient tree,

    four humans could join hands round it,

    alive yesterday

    today lay bleeding, horizontal.

    Time has passed.

    This morning, this very morning

    they have filled up their turn lane.

    A new lane is now far enough away

    to have saved the old wizened tree:

    But the tree is gone,

    Probably the paper I’m writing on.

    Contributed by Marilyn New, Redmond, WA

  • Time to Listen

    I have always been intrigued by the whispering trees.

    Each has a different story it tells, though not always a whispers, the wind that blows through its leaves and branches. With Fall their dried leaves crackle and break from their branches alerting us of times to come; Winter has their bare branches whistling of cold but also of steadfastness and a new beginning; then Spring and the soft, simple immature banter of their new leaves and finally Summer with their full and heavy songs of another circle yet completed.

    These stories can best be heard by anyone taking the time to listen.

    Contributed by Gary White, Wheaton, IL

  • There is no living…

    There is no living thing quite as grand as a prairie oak, as wide as tall, standing over a prairie remnant.

    Contributed by Guy C. Fraker, Bloomington ,IL

  • The Shed

    It was the boots she chose in the end. After days of sifting through his things, she knew. These would be the treasures she would choose to keep, her father’s old boots.

    There on the floor of the dusty cluttered shed they stood in a shaft of sunlight. Curling slightly at the toes and worn down at the heels she recognized in them her father’s gait and the impressions it had left on his precious boots. The bump where his bunion had forced the leather to accommodate it and the way the insteps fell together, a result of his flat feet that had eventually kept him out of the war. He hadn’t had the best feet in the world, it was true and while they had caused him pain during his life, they had also carried him for many a year over hill and dale and even up a few mountains.

    Her feet were just the same and she remembered the times she had resented this inheritance. How she had envied her best friend’s feet and the accolades heaped upon them by the school nurse because they were so divinely perfect, due in no small part she was sure, to the “sensible shoes” her friend was forced to wear.

    But it was different now. She didn’t mind any more. Standing alone in a silt of scattered newspapers and the wreckage of un-repaired furniture her eyes rested upon his boots, the relics of more than a few childhood memories.

    These were the boots that had carried her father over the fields and down the lanes to the old Mill Pond where he would seek out the elusive Kingfisher. Sometimes he’d walk as far as Earlswood Lakes to watch his beloved Canada geese, or across the verdant meadows, behind the house to see if the fox had had her cubs yet.

    With his boots laced up, his cap set jauntily on his head, his binoculars in hand and a quick look in the mirror, satisfied that he was fit to be seen, he’d saunter off “down the cut” for hours on end to inspect the flora and fauna.

    He loved all of nature and was a natural woodsman. It came as no surprise to her that her father had planted hundreds of trees over the years. He sprouted acorns and “conkers” from the great Horse Chestnut trees in pots in his garden. It was a gesture he thought little of as he ambled off to plant them when the time was right. Amongst the banks and the hollows, in a shady spot or a sunny location where he thought an English Oak or a noble Chestnut tree could flourish dramatically. He was happily creating the landscape to his liking.

    He probably could have shown her where most of them were if she’d asked, but she didn’t. She just asked him “Why?” and he didn’t have an answer for her. Just a quizzical look as if to say “Why not?” And though he was gone now, he had left a mark on the Warwickshire landscape as permanent as he could wish.

    His garden reflected his natural proclivity for all things wild. This being the case, the grasses and wild flowers enjoyed the freedom to grow where they would. This uncontained tanglement was the cause of great aggravation not only for George, the next door neighbour, whose own garden had a park like quality about it, but also her own mother who would never miss an opportunity to gaze over the fence wistfully, especially when her father was out doors. Then, looking over the horticultural nightmare that was her own garden in utter despair, she would give father a withering look before going inside.

    Their creature comforts taken care of by the absence of a lawn mower, several small furry residents quickly made themselves at home. They had only to weasel their way through the hedge into George�s abundant vegetable garden for a repast beyond compare. Father increased their bounty by providing warm milk and bread for the Hedgehogs and was always delighted when the babies were brought out for an airing, convinced in his mind that they were brought along solely for his inspection and approval. However, this did little to discourage the hairy rascals from poaching George’s prized vegetables and eventually, over-come with guilt, father eventually put on his boots, picked up his scythe and went “down the gardin” to see what could be done.

    The nature preserve was cut down except for “a bit o” green for the faeries and the dryad” at the far end of the garden. The tundra that now greeted him each time he walked outside was so disturbing to him that he was compelled to do something about it. That was the summer he became a gardener and for the next few years he surprised and delighted his family and neighbours with an abundance and variety of vegetables fit for a king. He made friends with George who happily shared his secrets for matchless “tayturs”. They now fell into easy conversations over the fence as they discussed the merits of mulching, fertilizing and harvesting their respective broods of fruits and vegetables.

    But then he fell into a steady decline. Although he still went for walks, he could no longer manage the garden and eventually it grew back into the wilderness it had once been. He became angry and frustrated and unable to cope with a disease that came in the night and stole his mind knowing his heart would follow.

    In his entire life he’d only seen the inside of a church twice and that was plenty for him. He liked to say “When I die, put me in the dustbin”. He’d laugh and wheeze a bit, having no illusions about where he would be going. Then he’d fall into a happy silence.

    Released from her reverie, she cast about the wreckage for his other boots but they were not to be found. A pair of dark green climbing boots that took him to the summits of several mountains, but that was when he was younger. She had sat dangling her feet in Welsh mountain streams with her mother as they watched him take her brother up into the clouds. When his son became a Boy Scout, he joined too, and as Scoutmaster to the senior boys of the 89th troop, he never disappointed his charges. With his talent for climbing and his love for the outdoors, he led mountaineering expeditions and hikes that thrilled and excited his intrepid adventurers. These were probably his glory days, the times he would most wish to remember.

    As she climbed over the debris of his life, she remembered him best of all as the father who had quietly loved her and supported her. She remembered his sense of humour and how he would laugh now if he could see her.

    She climbed out of the shed, closed the door behind her and walked up to the house for a cup of tea, comforted by the feel of his old boots and how well they fitted her feet.

    Contributed by Amanda Bradley, Edmonds, Washington

  • The Heather Tree

    There is a pine tree on the golf course across the road where I live. I remember the day it was planted some 35 years ago. I was 9 years old with a new Golden Retriever puppy and given the grown up responsibly of walking her. I would take her to that tree, and let her off the leash to swim in the river while I climbed up one of the wobbly branches to play and watch her. This is how life flew though my childhood summers…walking to that tree with a romp in my step and a smile in my heart.

    Now that I am older with 3 dogs and 3 children,  grown up responsibilities fill my days, the seasons test even the heartiest winter lovers, and some days the walk is a chore. However, a small miracle occurs at that pine tree. I can no longer climb it, and it is much to big to put my arms around;  but instinctively, my hand reaches out to touch the huge trunk. Upon touching, a warm flow of energy goes up my arm to my heart, and I smile quite unintentionally. 

    You see, that tree is me.

    The once flexible branches, are no longer able to bend on a whim with the wind. Where the outside was once smooth and soft, weathered lines appear on the thickening bark. Yet in the harshest of winters, the roots have been nurtured, growing deep and strong. As the tree grew bigger, it  too took on more responsibility; providing a warm shelter, restful shade, and happiness for the creatures who come in contact with it. If we could see the rings, we would know the inside has not died or changed; it still radiates with pure childlike love.

    Peace, Megan

  • The Good Red Road

    When I was 8 years old..that was 1958…a very significant year for many folks…I would sneak out of bed in the mild weather, when my folks were asleep and creep out to a large spruce that was in the very back of our property. In there I had a nest of blankets and that’s where I kept all of my totems and special things. I’d sleep out there and at the first light sneak back to my bed. In that place I was safe and I truly became the “Indian” that I believed myself to be. Out there…my blonde hair was gone and I had long dark hair and brown skin. The spruce make that so. One night while I was out there, I saw a light coming closer and thought…”uhoh…dad is coming to find me” As the light came closer…it wasn’t dad at all, but a Native man with a torch. I lifted the heavy branch and looked out at his glowing presence. “child…I am your great grandfather and I have an important message for you”. I wasn’t afraid…I was comforted by him. “I will always be with you in everything you do…You have a huge future ahead of you with an important path to walk. It’s called the Good Red Road and if you stumble or falter or come up against trials that you can’t imagine over coming….remember this my child….You are Up to the Task.” With that he faded. I slept with a smile that night. And all through my life, now 60 years, I’ve always remembered his words. They’ve brought me back from death…. and beyond. It was the tree that I slept beneath that was the energy that facilitated that night…

    love and peace…lynnann

  • The Giving Plant

    MY FATHER AND MOTHER HAVE INSTILLED A LOVE OF PLANTING IN OUR FAMILY.

    The planting inheritance, a flourishing of the verdurous instinct…

    But it’s more to the relishing of seeing things grow. And sharing in that growth. My father comes from a planting background, as a farmer. Early on, our family bought a farm, some several miles from our house in Spokane — mostly hay, back in the beginning. But later, the family — including all the brothers, and Dad, brought trees to plant. And more trees. And more — till finally, the bulk of the land is covered in pine. But it was never about the idea of cutting the trees, but converting the land.

    Walking round, cleaning the land around the island studio, I see the many little plantings that have moved to permanence, after nearly two decades of growth. Here, too, are trees that have moved along — some, to growth, others have passed in the harsh and salted winds and rain. Cedars, transplanted couldn’t survive the shift from inland forests to more coastal weather.

    I’m seeing the inklings of spring, just coming. Little sprigs of green emerging – the hints that the fierce grasp of winter is shifting to the season of renewal.

    The nature of planting — the nurturing sprig or seedling — it’s a mutual gift, whether gardens, flowers, trees; but that gift, as I’ve seen in my parents, is as much a gift in the practice of planting, as the nourishing of green to the outcome of that gesture.

    With the sun shining, it’s a day that celebrates that transition, just now — glinting rays illuminate the far shore like a rule of scintillant light, shimmering in slivers.

    The waters, calm, still speak the whisper of the tides.

    Contributed by Tim Girvin, Seattle, Washington

  • The Dance of the Mountain Trees

    A Children’s Story

    It is told that hundreds of years ago there were small mountain folk, the Alyphanties, who inhabited the rocks and boulders of Backbone Mountain in Western Maryland. They were seldom seen, although local legend has it that on several occasions around sunset, right after the evening breeze had been put to bed and the air was still, you could see the mountain trees––the  hickory, elm, oak, poplar, maple and hemlock all dance and sway to the rhythm of a high-pitched musical instrument.

    It was the music from Nephod’s flute that drifted across the mountain. He always sat under his favorite old oak tree each day, and his melodies floated away on the winds, wrapped themselves around boulders, and brushed over the plants and flowers. The trees would pick up his rhythm, lift up their branches and then bend to and fro to the tempo. Even the birds would sing along with each new melody, and it is thought that even today they sing the songs learned from Nephod’s flute.

    Each spring Nephod would wander through the forests, stopping to play for the new trees that had sprouted, plants as they pushed up from the soil, and for the new flowers as they opened. He paused by animal dens to play for the arrival of new babies. Birds came out of their shells and butterflies emerged from their cocoons to his music. It is thought that Nephod=s gentle music was the reason the Alyphanties lived safely and harmoniously with the wildlife.

    One day one of the children, a 12-year old girl named Zinta, who was a strong-willed restless child, decided to wander off into the forest and down the mountain. She was tired of being confined to the mountain top. She hid behind trees as she went so no one could see her. Zinta knew she should stay within the boundaries where she could hear Nephod’s flute. Surely, she thought, it couldn=t hurt to explore the land below. After all, she could always find her way back home.

    The trees down on the slope squawked and moaned at her, encouraging her to continue down. AGo down, Zinta, go down,@ they seemed to say. At last there was no music. Zinta had passed into the forbidden new world.

    She grinned and clapped as she looked all around her. There’s no  reason I can=t be here, she said to herself, it doesn’t look any different down here than it does at home. But Zinta had no more time to explore that day. It had taken her longer than she expected to travel this far and until now she hadn’t noticed how late it was. The sun would soon settle behind the far mountain. She knew she must hurry back home before it was dark and her family missed her, but she also knew she would come back tomorrow and stay longer.

    She turned around to retrace her steps, but she saw no trail behind her. Was she facing the wrong direction?  She turned in a deliberate circle. There was no trail anywhere. Where could it be? She had just been on the path.  She took two steps forward. The ground softened under her feet and she began to sink into the earth.

    As she sank she watched the shrubs and vines move towards her. She was now up to her knees in mud. The forest crept closer and closer. The trees creaked and howled with laughter, their branches reaching out to touch her. ANow we have you,@ they screeched. Zinta looked wildly from side to side for a way through to the trail, but not only was she already surrounded by trees, she was still sinking and would soon be buried up to her waist.

    AMother, mother!@ she screamed. Her cries of horror pierced through the forest. The Alyphanties looked around in confusion as her shrieks found their way to the village. No one had yet realized Zinta was missing. Some of the men rushed into the forest, hoping the screams would lead them to this person. Others worked their way down the slopes. It was Nephod, however, who knew what to do. He ran to the edge of the mountain and played his music as loud as he could in the direction of her cries. The music sped through the forest on the mountain winds down into the forbidden land. The trees down there, which had never heard music before, stopped howling as the melody brushed against their branches. They moved away from the path and then offered Zinta their branches to grab onto. They pulled and pulled, lifting her up until she was free from the mud. Nephod’s music then wrapped around her and guided her back up the trail to the safety of the mountain top. She knew that this visit to the forbidden land was to be her last.

    It has since been told that from then on the trees down on the slopes would listen to Nephod’s music. They, too, learned to dance and sway to its rhythm that floated down on the breezes. They, too, learned to live in harmony with the rest of the forest.

    Excerpt re-written from:

    The Great Cavern of the Winds:  Tales from Backbone Mountain

    by Denise Hillman Moynahan

  • Some Kind of Magic

    When I was 10 years old there was tree I used to climb in my backyard. It was around 50 feet tall and I could climb up 40 feet before the branches thinned out. One day I was in the tree when my mother ran out into the yard and yelled at me to get out of the tree. Her over reaction scared me, so I didn’t take the usual caution as I climbed down. I lost my balance and fell 30 feet but the branches of the tree almost seemed to catch me as I dropped through them. It was as if they curled up and wrapped around me, as though the branches passed me from one to another until I was on the ground. Outside of a few scratches I had no injuries. My mother was still yelling at me, not realizing the miracle that had taken place, but I knew some kind of magic had just happened.

    Contributed by Larry Oberc, Chicago, IL

  • Shovels & Wheelbarrows

    Excerpts from “Grandpa Stories”
    Shovels & Wheelbarrows
    -Part 1

    Certainty knows no bounds when it comes to understanding my grandfather’s time with the soil, his shovels and his wheelbarrow.

    This was indeed a man who handled his shovels as if a prize on a shelf, a badge to shine on his shirt. His wheelbarrow was a piece of magic, the size of which seemed far too large for its travel in my grandpa’s car trunk. But those gleaming shovels, clean and free of dirt, and that larger than life wheelbarrow, seemed to go with him everywhere he and his Olds ’98 traveled.

    I imagine that coming from Ireland, from a land of rocks, and hills, and farming – with green misty views reaching to infinity – that he grew up with the land in him. So it shouldn’t surprise me to wake in the morning (usually some Saturday morning at 6:30 a.m.) to find my grandpa in our backyard. He would be planting his second –or perhaps even third– blue spruce (another thing I am certain was his favorites).

    My brothers and I would hear his wide deep digging shovel grip the gravely dirt – then would come the drag of soil to the surface – the thud of the earth meeting the mound he had formed. We would lie in our beds half awake, half asleep, knowing our grandfather was doing the thing he was most alive doing…digging in the land. More importantly, our backyard!

    My Dad and Saturday Mornings
    -Part 2

    Now mind you, it’s a great thing to be so connected to the land, but it’s another not to tell someone you’re feeling connected to “their land,” “their yard.” Oh yes, of this I am also certain — there were days that my dad would have loved a notice posted of:
    “INTENT TO EXCAVATE YOUR YARD FOR TREE PLANTING.”

    Collectively us kid’s, we would know our time of half-awake and half-asleep had ended — and when fully awake had arrived — when we heard my parent’s bedroom door open. First would come the light step of my mom in the hallway heading towards the kitchen, minutes later we could smell the sweetness of cinnamon rolls and icing baking. I am convinced now that this was my mom’s way of signaling a kind of “chore-warning.”

    Confirmation of this alert was given when my parent’s bedroom door opened for the second time. My dad had a way of opening their bedroom door – which pushed a gust of wind under each of ours – along with a way of stepping out into the hallway that declared a litany of chores that lie ahead on any given Saturday.

    Door Opening Sounds
    -Part 3

    There existed several proclamations within each of my dad’s door opening wind gust:

    1. The “let’s clean the garage” – door opening sound
    (of which the stories are so great in length & quantity – they would best be left for another day and another book entirely of its own).

    2. The arbitrary, “let’s all wake-up cause it feels too late to still be asleep” – door opening sound.

    3. The “you stayed out to late last night, so get your butt outta bed” – door opening sound.

    4. The “let’s have a party and invite lots of people – so get up and clean every dish & glass, mow the lawn, wash the floors, clean the garage, and oh by the way, let’s redecorate” – door opening sound.

    and of course…

    5. The gust of wind and sound combination of: “your grandpa’s here planting trees and I didn’t know anything about it…but you’re all gonna get up and help – before he digs up all the trees we’ve already planted and moves them” – door opening sound.

    Us
    – Final part

    Each of these particular door-opening signals would be followed up with the triple knock on each of our bedroom doors and the somewhat military-ish delivery of “rise – n – shine.”

    Indeed as time has passed, the years have provided me with rich recollections. There were important messages there for me – this was a lesson in learning about my grandfather’s time, which created my father’s time, which in turn r-e-i-n-c-a-r-n-a-t-e-d into something totally different in each of my five brothers and my own time. And in the end, regardless of our bodies calling for sleep, it was tree-planting time; for my grandfather, with my grandfather, about his love of shovels & wheelbarrows, of trees, the soil, and most importantly us.

    Yes, of this I am truly certain, it was about his time – with us.

    Short stories written by Linda Marie Barrett
    (Submitted in honor of my grandfather Michael R. Barrett, who arrived in the United States of America from Castleisland, Ireland – via Liverpool, England, UK, — aboard the ship Cedric on
    February 28, 1920.)

  • Hope

    Our magnolia was planted as an understory tree beneath several American Elms in 1940 by my grandparents. As kids we sat among her branches. Then last spring a woman stopped by our house to tell us that she had photographed it the year this was taken. It was a low point in her life and she dubbed the tree “hope” and hung it on her wall. This will be my sixtieth spring and I still marvel at its beauty and constancy.          Contributed by Sandy Riddell Wagner

  • Rowan

    We live in a traditional cottage in north east Scotland. When we moved into our cottage, many years ago, there were six Sitka spruce along one side of the garden. Rangy, poor dying souls; so we got them cut down and taken away. I felt dreadful after this, our garden felt bare and too different. We live in the middle of farmland where it seems that trees and hedges get cut down indiscriminately by the farmers; we did not want to be part of that movement. So we planted new trees; we had to think carefully as our garden isn’t big. It is surrounded by a very old beech hedge, and there is a mature Ash tree in the front and a Field Maple in the back garden. So we planted a Cherry, two Hawthorns (one of which I had grown from a seed) a Maple (Crimson King) a Birch (Snow Queen) and a Rowan/Mountain Ash. The trees have now grown a great deal and are the delight of the garden. We even named out son after a tree, Rowan, as it was traditional here to plant a Rowan tree in the garden of a new house to protect against evil spirits. We wanted our son to be protected and we also thought it was a beautiful name. He rather spoilt the romance when he got his first library card and I found out that he had added Geronimo to his birth name, as he felt he lacked a middle name!

    Contributed by Catherine Whiteman

  • Puke Berry

    Trees… what tree stories do I have? After thinking I realized I had not one tree story, but many… many trees marking my years. How to choose which was better or more important?

    I can think of immediate ones—the maple tree in my parents’ front yard. I spent a lot of time in that tree. I sat in it to read, to think or to spy. I shared a lot of time with it. My mother told me a couple of years ago that one of the main branches on the bottom was splitting! They were talking about taking it off. I knew the very branch. It was the first on you would grab onto as you swung your body around and prepared to crawl up and lose yourself in the cover of the leaves. I told my mother if they ever cut it off, I wanted it and would mount it in the corner of a room so that I might hang from it again. I can think of many other neighborhood’ trees—Uncle Johnny’s willow, the Amos’s Box Elder, the pine tree on the on the golf course where we had a makeshift tree house.

    I thought of every Christmas tree and how I wanted to hug everyone, but couldn’t. It is a frustration I still have. My father loves Christmas trees so we were fortunate to always have two: the living room tree and the kids’ tree in the rec room. Before any of our outside evergreens were big enough to put lights on, my father would get a 3rd and would put it in the front yard just so he could have a tree with lights outside. Even though all of us kids are grown, my parents still get two trees. I only get one, but I name every one. My husband used to think I was crazy, but now he helps in listening for their name as well. I love a fresh Christmas tree, but insist on them being disposed of properly. They need to be recycled or given back to the earth so that she might recycle it.

    I believe in this so strongly that I wrote and illustrated a children’s book about it and about the hidden magic in Christmas trees, one secret being that we don’t choose them, they choose us. I am hoping a green- minded publisher will see the hidden magic in my book and publish it, but so far… no luck… onto the next submission!

    I can think of trees that made me laugh—the ”puke berry” one on my college campus… trees that made me cry—the beautiful 40 ft. Blue Spruce they torn down in the middle of the city in order to make room for yet another condo… trees that made me feel safe and trees that made me feel they were watching and recording history. If only we could ”play” a tree as we do a record or a tape. What would they have to say? What would they have seen?

    Thanks for giving me a chance to remember.

    Contributed by Jennifer Krentz, Chicago, IL

  • Princé

    Every day after I came home from school I passed a small evergreen at the corner of my house’s garage. It had awkward branches sticking out on the top and it was only a few feet taller than I was. I wanted it to know that although it wasn’t large and majestic it was special, so I named it Princé (pronounced Pree-say) and kissed its branches every day

    Contributed by Melissa Sandfort, Chicago, IL

  • Primordial Forest

    I have visited the Primordial Forest near the coast of Oregon. The Hidden Creek Wilderness has a stand of giant Redwoods going back two thousand years.

    It seems that few humans wander off the path into this overgrown untouched wilderness with Hidden Creek running through it. Even the Indians that lived along the coast and wore the bark for clothing, gathered berries and seeds from the undergrowth, were said to be afraid of the Dark Forest. Occasionally an old hunter enters the forest, carrying his rifle. The turf is moist and spongy from layers of bark and loam and old trees that have fallen over, becoming part of the ground. It is easy to take a step and sink way down. The smell is fresh and musty. The redwoods grow straight upwards, creating a ceiling at about 200 feet. There are signs of elk and bear along the river. One tree is charred by lightening, somehow burning in all this wetness. Inside this place there are no paths, and the trees are covered in moss hanging down, like old elegant clothing.

    Winter wrens hop along the ground and are difficult to see. The only sound is the owl hooting. American Dippers dive in and out of the river.

    Inside with the trees the silence is thick, palpable. There are no human sounds left, and not a trace of human presence. Just these ancient trees guarding memory. I say to myself, ”Nothing false can enter Here.”

    Contributed by Laurie Doctor, Boulder, CO

  • Peach Tree

    When I was young, I anxiously awaited the arrival of spring to see the bright pink blossoms on our three peach trees. I was intrigued by how the fruit emerged after the blossoms fell. The trees took up most of our backyard so two of them served as second and third base. Touching any branch of the tree meant you were safe and hitting the ball over a tree was easily a home run! As the peaches matured, becoming soft and red, it was time for picking. I would always start by finding a peach at its peak, washing off the fuzz and then biting into the luscious fruit, juice dripping from both sides of my mouth. Homemade peach ice cream was the summer treat. That would come after canning bushels of fruit. In the winter my favorite breakfast was grandma’s homemade bread and a bowl of those bottled peaches. Oh how I treasure the fond memories from those generous peach trees.

    Contributed by Cathy Loffredo,  Tucson, AZ

  • Our Love

    Our love began the summer of 2000 under a white oak tree. This was no ordinary tree, this was a two hundred year old oak whose branches reached wider than her height. She stood on a bluff overlooking a serpentine creek. Emma was her name and she had become a symbol of our fight to protect this beautiful land from a needless road. We met for the first time at an event called “meet the creek” to raise awareness and public support. People came from all over the country to help save this unique landscape comprised of wetlands, meadows, and old growth oak forest. Emma protected the tree sitters who lived in her branches and touched the lives of many who came to defend her that summer. We fought hard, but as the sun was rising in late summer, Winnebago county brought in their bulldozers and pushed over what took 200 years to grow and burned her on the spot. Our hearts were very sad. But life blooms from death, and the friendships that were formed under Emma’s branches will endure a lifetime. We were soon married and conceieved a beautiful son. The cycle of life continues.

    Contributed by Randy & Jessie Mermel, Roscoe, IL

  • otto peasle’s prairie home

    my memory brings me back to my life at the age of 6 or 7. i grew up on the northwest side of chicago when it still had prairie land. i remember otto peasle’s prairie house and a fallen tree that i used to sit on and talk to god as i looked into the sky. i asked questions on existence…”why was i here?” ”who was god?” and then i would hear my mother’s voice call me home for dinner. and there was this part of myself that did not want to leave the place of the tree. there was this protective space i had found that only i and god knew of.

    my memory moves forwards one week before my highschool graduation. my best friend and i thought it would be fun to ditch classes and go to the local forest preserve to drink a couple beers. i had started drinking very early after i found out that my farther was cheating in his marriage with my mother. so drinking had become a pastime. we found ourselves at the preserves and decided to take a swim across the man-made lake. i had done this before but not on a belly full of beer.

    i began to swim across and noticed that my friend decided to turn back. ”no problem”, i thought until two thirds of the way my body began to cramp as i had not eaten all day. i lost control over my swim and went under the water. coming back up i began to look at the sky as i had done when i was small and i began to pray. i went under the water three more times and knew that if i were to emerge again that it would be the last.

    out of nowhere, and i still do not know how to explain this, i was carried above the water and to the shore where i crawled to the edge of the forest. i stood and walked into the welcoming trees. within moments i found myself sitting on a fallen tree and at once was brought back to otto peasle’s prairie home and my conversations with god. and an energy swept over me that i can only describe as pure love.

    and it was on this day that my life changed as i no longer asked the question ”why am i here” or ”who is this god” as i finally discovered those answers. and it was all due to the fact that i had beneath me, all along, the strength and the love that i have found in trees.

    Contributed by Kris Larsen

  • My Tree Story.

    Living on the central Oregon Coast in the Pacific Northwest affords great opportunity for walking in the woods among huge old growth trees. I marvel at their beauty and feel a presence even from the giant stumps left over from logging a century ago. I walk with my dog several times a week on secluded forest trails behind my house. It’s quiet in the solitude save for the voices of the trees who seem to speak volumes.

    Best,
    Christie Burns

  • My Father’s People

    Maureen Squires, a follower of Treewhispers, sent me this lovely note that I’m copying below with her permission.

    Hi Pam–the following is an excerpt from my unpublished manuscript My Father’s People. The passage is part of the story of two trips I took to Ireland to find my “roots”–tree imagery?? Use it or not–thought you might enjoy the ritual–try it…Maureen

    This morning Aiseling had me read the myth of the Green Man from Caitlin Matthews’ book of Celtic Meditations. She first told me of a man she met yesterday in the garden by the nun’s cemetery at Diseart. He started talking to her about the ancient copper beech tree that covered the garden with its widespread and many protective arms. He told her if you place your left hand on your head while leaning against the tree and rub your stomach in circles with your right hand, the strength of the tree will fill you, somehow transferred. Then my mind wandered a bit to past Celtic stories. Caesar reportedly ordered the burning of the sacred groves of the Celts when he finally defeated them during the Gallic Wars. He seemed to believe the source of the druid’s powers lay in the sacred groves. Could that fear have also grasped Cromwell in his push to denude Ireland of her great oaks and groves, I pondered? Were shipbuilding and charcoal the only motivations? Christianity was long established but the old ways remained a presence especially in the west.

    …and yes, I’ll definitely partake in the ritual!

  • Music of Trees

    I play native american flute.  It is said that the flute is magic. Why is it that the native flute is so calming, peaceful, and healing….and can calm the savage beast or angry person?  Well…the NA flute is made from a tree, the tree is grown from Mother Earth, she was made by The Great Mystery or Creator.  There is where the miracle comes in.  It is the Spirit of all our brothers and sisters around us, and was gifted to us from Creator.  It is that simple.

    Contributed by Pattik Singingbird K., Wheeling, IL

  • Moonlight

    Moonlight shines in through the silent night.

    Light a beeswax candle.

    Yuko Wada

  • Merton’s Advice

    Some years ago, I had a friend who had studied to be a Trappist monk. Questioning his vocation, he went to see his abbot, Thomas Merton, to ask his advice. Merton told him to go outside and talk to the trees. My friend thought this was crazy and left the order.

    Some years later, in a spiritual crisis of my own, I remembered Merton’s advice. I did go outside and find a lovely oak. I embraced it and asked it’s advice. In silence, it soothed and nourished me. I connected again to life. Since then, I’ve deeply valued trees and their Spirits.

    Contributed by Bill Hayashi, Chicago, IL

  • Living Tree

    Ah, my tree has to be down by tomorrow night as it needs to be returned to the wild. We rent a living tree every year (it’s about the same cost as buying a tree). It (we called this one “Piney”) arrives on Dec. 12 and must stay outside, snuggled to the side of the house to start acclimating. Piney came in on the 15th, ornaments rolled around for several days until the cats knocked off the ones they could reach and/or lost interest. Piney must go back on the porch, snuggled to the house, for 3 days and then his friends come and pick him up and plant him in the parks.

    Contributed by Alicia Zorn, Portland, Oregon

  • Listening

    FACE TOUCHING BARK

    LISTENING TO THE HEARTBEAT

    OF THE ANCIENT OAK

    SHE IS BLOSSOMING

    WITH THE ALMOND TREES

    by Giselle Maya

    A TANKA POEM FROM THE BOOK “SACRED TREES”, FIRST PUBLISHED BY KOYAMA PRESS IN 2008. ( The form of Tanka dates from the 8th century in Japan and now is blossoming around the world – it has 5 lines, after the second or third there is a shift in thought/feeling) Giselle Maya is a painter, poet and gardener who lives in Provence. She is a member of TANKA SOCIETY OF AMERICA.

  • Linda’s Tree Story

    Story from OFFICIAL COURT REPORTER–

    1 LINDA’S TREE STORY.

    2 Let me see. I have a few tree stories at our house.

    3 My favorite one I told Pam was my grandfather was

    4 born in Ireland. He loved trees. Loved planting

    5 trees. And I said he loved planting trees at six in

    6 the morning in our back yard, especially in my Dad’s

    7 back yard. We used to laugh that we could hear like

    8 his shovel in the back yard. And we said jokingly

    9 that you could hear the wind from my Dad’s door

    10 opening, my parents’ bedroom door opening, and a gust

    11 of wind that blew underneath your bed room door early

    12 in the morning to kind of, like the little sounds

    13 that wake you.

    14 And he was running out because he knew that something

    15 was going on in the back yard. And my grandfather

    16 had a — what was it? Like a really — I’m trying to

    17 think of the car — an Oldsmobile. And he had

    18 shovels and a wheelbarrow that he could keep in his

    19 trunk. And his trunk was spotless. His shovel, it

    20 was like he shined them. They were as shiny as a

    21 badge. They were spotless.

    22 But he would come in, and his favorite tree was a

    23 blue spruce. And for each of our First Communions he

    24 planted a blue spruce for each one of us kids

    OFFICIAL COURT REPORTERS –

    2

    1 But when we moved, all those trees stayed of course

    2 in the house we grew up in.

    3 So my grandfather felt inclined to kind of replant a

    4 few more trees when we moved out to this house.

    5 And it was actually because we’d just wake up in the

    6 morning on Saturday morning. And my grandfather

    7 would be doing the thing he loved, which was planting

    8 trees in our back yard.

    9 Without asking my Dad, he would just decide on a

    10 place that he thought was best. And it was always,

    11 my Dad would be, like, you know, it would be nice if

    12 you could at least say you’re coming over to plant

    13 trees.

    Contributed by Linda Barrett

  • Leslie’s First Tree Story

    Story recorded by the Court Reporter

    1 LESLIE’S FIRST TREE STORY

    2 In 1996 I was — I was pregnant with a baby. And she

    3 and I got sick. She passed after she as born. And

    4 we moved shortly after to a new home. We had to

    5 move. And in order to heal, I found myself trimming

    6 underneath this huge evergreen tree that was in the

    7 very front of our yard. It was very close to the

    8 house. And in time, to recover, I was really sick

    9 from it. It took about a year. And I stayed

    10 underneath the tree. And just no one had ever

    11 trimmed it, and it was just huge (indicating) and

    12 tall. So I would just climb up and trim the dead

    13 branches.

    14 And then we moved from there, and eventually someone

    15 bought that home. And then I saw that that tree was

    16 up for an option for the Botanic Garden. They were

    17 looking for a Christmas tree, and they had their eye

    18 on three different trees in the area. And they ended

    19 up choosing that tree. And so it was like in the

    20 newspaper. They cut it down. It was very close to

    21 the house. And so they brought it to the Botanic

    22 Garden. And they put, like, 10,000 Italian lights

    23 on. And it was the Christmas tree for that year

    24 And I called up the woman who ran it, and I said

    OFFICIAL COURT REPORTERS –

    2

    1 that’s a really special tree to me. And I told her

    2 my daughter’s name, Zahava, and she called it

    3 Zahava’s tree. And we visited, and we took a

    4 picture.

    5 Then many many years later, as I was working with an

    6 intuitive, clearing different things, she said to me,

    7 “Well, I know that you are Jewish, but there’s this

    8 Christmas tree, an evergreen tree, crumpled in your

    9 spine, energetically speaking.” And she said, “Does

    10 that make any sense?” And I said, “Yes, it makes a

    11 lot of sense.” So, I told her what my connection was

    12 to that, and we cleared the tree, the tree — all the

    13 gifts the tree had given to me, and its connection to

    14 that event and to that time together that we spent

    15 together.

    16 There’s more to the story, but basically — I mean, I

    17 have poems about it and writings about it. But

    18 basically that’s one of the stories of being

    19 connected to the tree, and that it says in you, you

    20 know, you don’t go far. They don’t go far.

    21 Oh, I know what the connection is. Then there was

    22 Yom Kippur coming up, and Day of Atonement. And I

    23 went to a river, and I played the flute, and I think

    24 I tossed some kind of prayer. It landed on a leaf on

    OFFICIAL COURT REPORTERS –

    3

    1 the river, and it floated down. And then I went to

    2 the person’s house where this tree was. And I

    3 knocked on the door. And I said I need to just

    4 connect, make a connection with the place where this

    5 tree had been. You see that dip in your — you know.

    6 She said yes. They were the same couple that donated

    7 the tree. And I went to that spot. I think I

    8 brought flowers and I brought water, and I played the

    9 flute just to make our connection with the leaf full

    10 circle. That was it. That was the story for me.

    11

    12
    Contributed by Leslie Schechtman

  • Juicy Mulberries

    My favorite tree was a mulberry tree at my neighbors. We climbed onto a chicken house to reach our juicy mulberries. We would reach high and keep eating. Our hands and feet stained purple, our faces full of smiles.

    Contributed by Lisa Steffen, Charter Oak, Iowa

  • John’s Tree Story

    Whenever there’s a gathering of people I can’t help but hear a tree story or two—so, some time ago when I had an open house I asked a good friend who happens to be a court reporter, if she would mind documenting the stories. She graciously agreed. Enjoy!

    JOHN’S TREE STORY
    Everyone’s got a lot of tree memories. I don’t know if any one in particular is compelling as a story. When you asked me about it, though, I was thinking about a trip that I took recently to northern California. My brother lives there. And I have gone up and visited him. He lives in wine country, but not too far from the redwoods, redwood forest in northern California. So two years ago I went up there in November and visited with my brother and his family, and then went north to what then they call the Lost Coast of northern California. It’s really remote, beautiful hiking area.

    On the way up in Humboldt County I had heard about this redwood forest called Montgomery Woods. Montgomery Woods supposedly has the largest tree, might be the largest tree in the world. It’s billed as the largest tree in North America. It’s a redwood. And they don’t identify the tree. They don’t tell you which tree it is. They say the largest tree is in Montgomery Woods someplace. So I thought, well, I’m hiking up towards north of, towards the Lost Coast. I would look for the biggest tree in the world. And I hike in and, you know, there’s a little parking lot and a little — also a little ranger station there. There was nobody there. It was in October, way past the tourist season. I was there by myself essentially I walked in. There was a little gravel trail, looking at these trees, and I decided just get off the trail because the biggest tree in the world is probably off the trail someplace, off the beaten path. So I hiked through. It’s not that big. The park is not that big. But I got completely disoriented and lost. And all of a sudden I was in this glade of redwood trees—a redwood forest. If you’ve ever been in a redwood forest, because the light doesn’t penetrate to the forest floor, there’s no undergrowth. It’s just like ferns, and it’s dark and cool, even on a sunny day. Or a hot day, it’s dark and cool in there. And it gave me a sense of — Oh, it’s difficult to explain, but it’s a sense of, an awesome sense of holiness. You know, a sense of — that this place was a connection to something sacred about the earth; that it inspired in me a sense of respect for nature and a connection to it that I rarely experience because I live in the city.

    So I’m hiking along. And all of a sudden I came to this tree. And I thought that’s it. That’s the biggest tree in the world. It has to be. I have never seen anything more massive or huge. Then I start walking another couple of hundred yards. Oh, my God. There’s another tree. It’s 40 percent bigger than the one I just saw. I hiked another couple hundred yards. And there is another tree. So I don’t know if I ever saw the biggest tree in the world, but I saw some massive, massive trees that were just absolutely awe inspiring, and, as I said inspired in me a real sense of connection with the earth and respect for the earth, particularly over long periods of time. These trees are, you know, hundreds, possibly thousands of years old. And the things that those trees, you know, that portions of our history that these trees have come and gone and they just kind of endured all that and continue to grow and endure forest fires while, you know, our mayors and presidents come and go with their petty squabbles. And all their, you know, insignificant things these trees and the earth endures. So that’s my tree story.

    Contributed by John MacDonald

  • Job Interview

    It was about a month after I ended school, and I was on my third job interview. The first two had gone horribly, horribly, horribly. The jobs just didn’t feel right… I wanted something that would be satisfying, enjoyable, and right for me at this stage of life.

    I arrived extra early for the interview and had enough time to wait in my car. It was a warm summer day, but comfortable. I rolled down the windows and looked straight ahead. There was a rather thin tree that stretched up a good 20 feet or so. It had a thick enough trunk to impose a presence, but not thick enough to reverberate with wisdom.

    I sat there and was transfixed by this tree. This little tree, something I would take for granted in almost any other situation, somehow captured my undivided attention. I thought it was beautiful and peaceful and, most importantly, calm. I really listened to those thoughts. The tree had this amazing calming power and felt… yes… right.

    I went into the interview incredibly calm and confident. As the story goes, I had another interview lined up that day, but skipped it. I knew I had this job. I have no doubt that the overall sense of purity gained from the tree helped.

    Contributed by Paul McAleer, Chicago, IL

  • Jane’s Tree Story

    When I was growing up there was a cherry tree outside our kitchen door. And it had this incredible branch, went straight out sideways, horizontal. And we used to ride it as a horse. And in that one spot in Iowa I probably traveled the whole west. I galloped across the whole country on this make-believe horse. It was a wonderful memory. Spirit Lake, the northwest corner. In one spot I traveled the world.

    Contributed by Jane Rae Brown

  • Dream

    I was diagnosed with cancer in 1985 and two nights before my surgery I had a dream about a tree.

    It was a huge tree in a beautiful field. The sky was blue and the tree was completely covered in leaves. I was a small child looking up at it. When I woke up I knew that the tree was me and I began a series of drawings of the tree. The tree evolved with each drawing. The last drawing which is my favorite is a very abstract tree with a large eye in the side of the trunk, the sky is a very pale flat green and the tree itself is very colorful.

    When I finished these drawings I knew that I would survive the surgery and I think about these drawings quite frequently.

    Contributed by Anne McConville, Washington, D.C.

  • I Sang

    Visiting the willow tree was my reason for joining my uncle and cousin on their spring/summer fishing treks to the Washington Park lagoon, three blocks from our house and my grandmother’s flower garden where they dug up the worms for bait while I packed a picnic lunch because they never, ever caught any fish. While they baited their hooks at the edge of the lagoon, I climbed into the welcoming embrace of the sturdy willow branch that extended out over the water. With my back against the trunk and my feet dangling over the branch just inches from the water’s surface, I sang and cloud surfed and danced my whispered dreams. I skipped across the water with dragonflies, floated on the surface with the fallen willow leaves, inhaled spring and exhaled summer into the last autumn sunset.

    Contributed by E. Kamuda, Chicago, IL

  • I Found My Tree

    A long time ago, when my life was in turmoil, I found my tree, beside a stream in a city park. Whenever I was troubled, I went to my tree and looked up into it’s branches, knowing that it had been there for centuries, long before the estates around it had been built. It calmed me and cleared my mind. I loved it in all seasons and it anchored me to earth. (Thank you for reminding me :)

    Anonymous

  • I am the tree…

    I am the tree… there is no name for me … I am just the tree!
    My ways are ancient … symbolic of the connections between earth and sky.
    My roots grow deep into the soil; soil that is all that remains of my ancestors.
    It is all that remains … of anyone’s ancestors … and I know them all.
    For I walk barefoot in the soil; and the soil stores the remnants of every creature’s works.
    You are the human … do your roots live among the ancestors … like mine?
    Are you as dependent on … or even aware of … the wisdom of the soil or its long-term memory?

    I am the tree … it is but a word to me … I am just the tree!
    My leaves are held high … eager for the warmth of the sun and a gentle summer rains.
    And I cast my shadows across the meadow … shade for those who would tend my roots and branches.
    A family of Hawks has nested high in my crown …
    That they may teach their young to soar with Grandfather Sky.
    And I am honored for the air exchange we leafed beings … share … with those that have lungs.
    May our needs remain in balance! May our days be many upon this earth!

    I am the tree … no words, just a song for me … I am just the tree!
    Listen for the whispers of my song … carried by the wind at your back.
    There are many such songs in the forest, a different one for each and every physical thing.
    Songs that reveal the secrets hidden in every leaf and rock.
    Songs … like reference libraries … that share all secrets, great and small … worth knowing.
    It is the universal language all things use to communicate, it is the only true language.
    The language of vibrations … songs … still emanating from that very first day!

    I am the tree … I am the song … I am the tree!

    Ho Hecetu Welo!


    contributed by Rob (Wind At His Back) Miller

  • Heartbeat

    Have to share my experience with you that happened at the Botanical Gardens…I went up to a redwood tree (quite large) and leaned my back against it…almost immediately I felt such immense power in that tree…amazing…from deep in the earth…and felt the heartbeat.

    Anonymous

  • Hard To “Let Go”

    On a spiritual retreat at the Warrenville Cenacle, I connected with certain oak trees that held tight to their dried old brown leaves all through winter into early spring. I found comfort in the realization that even nature finds it hard to “let go” sometimes.

    Contributed by Donna Regan, Wheaton, IL

  • Haiku Garden Tales

    don’t move
    get to know intimately
    this one spot on earth

    creek water
    woven within paper
    tree whispers

    water carves
    the living mantle of soil
    silver salmon run

    created by light
    chalice of a poppy
    a small planet

    is it true
    the garden fashions
    the gardener

    the flower
    gives fertile seeds –
    its descendants

    By Giselle Maya, first published in the book ‘Garden Mandala’, Koyama Press, France 2011

    the opening
    of a single flower
    may touch a distant planet

    outer limits
    a ladybug ascending
    dew-covered grass

    clouds move
    behind oak boughs
    unveiling a star

    ancient oak
    on curved limbs
    a shawl of moss

    By Giselle Maya, first published in the book ‘Garden Mandala’, Koyama Press, France 2011

  • Gaia

    She dances with deer.
    She sleeps among birches.
    She sings to the stars
    and weaves the web
    of night into day.
    Her voice is eternal
    on the breath of the wind…
    She is my Mother…
    Gaia!

    Woman Wood
    In a woman scented wood
    the mystery begins.
    Her voice sighs softly just
    a whisper on the wind.
    Your name she calls
    inviting you
    to listen in repose.
    To dream, perhaps,
    to go within,
    to learn all that she knows.

    Contributed by Joan Rilse

  • Francie’s Tree Story

    I am grateful to a good friend who is a court reporter (and incredible artist and calligrapher)—as she graciously recorded stories told quite spontaneously at an open house one winter day.

    OFFICIAL COURT REPORTERS – 1

    1 FRANCIE’S TREE STORY.

    2 About 12 years ago a friend and I were living in

    3 Montana. We went out to Idaho. He took me to this

    4 forest. And all the trees — it was so enchanted.

    5 All the trees had fallen years ago. There had been a

    6 fire. And they were burned out in the middle, but

    7 some of them were still standing. And you could

    8 crawl into a hole in the tree and stand inside this

    9 old wood of what had once existed. And there was a

    10 hot spring river running through the forest about

    11 October, first snow. There was some snow on the

    12 ground. And it was just starting, flurries in the

    13 sky.

    14 And the hot spring river was going through these

    15 trees that had, like, their roots had all these

    16 gnarled knots like an old woman’s fingers. And the

    17 river was steaming up. It just felt like time didn’t

    18 mean anything there. And, that just like a little

    19 pocket of magic.

    20 And we would go inside of these trees and look up.

    21 And the wood was all charred. And because of wind

    22 and time it had twisted like that. And then, to find

    23 these little flowers and moss and mushrooms growing

    24 inside. I never forgot that forest. A whole forest

    25 of trees. Just the feeling of eternity in there.


    Contributed by Francie Corry

    OFFICIAL COURT REPORTERS –

  • Forest of Oma

    Spending an afternoon at the Evanston Art Center talking with Pamela Paulsrud, I was encouraged to send a tree story to Treewhispers. I have planted trees, saved trees that were blown over by the wind and rescued trees from the construction guy’s saw, but I am sending a picture of the Painted Trees in the Forest of Oma, as a Unique Tree Moment!

    The trees were painted by Basque artist Agustin Ibarrola, and the Forest of Oma is in the Basque Country of Northern Spain, some place between Bilbao and San Sebastian. Google maps had it pinpointed exactly, and all we had to do was drive to a little village and then it would be 4 kilometers or more up the mountain. Google maps did not mention that it was a footpath, closed to car traffic. The climb was worth it—a stunning mountain top vista, and deep in the pine forest, many trees had been painted by a magical hand—rainbow colors, figures, symbols, it was a most unusual art work in a beautiful setting.

    Augstin Ibarrola’s works can be found in Google Images. He has traveled around Spain painting trees, rocks, just about anything in a remote and special location, and his dedicated followers delight in traveling to each place, photographing the work and posting it as proof of their visit.

    Photo and text contributed by Sara Drower, Wilmette, IL

  • For My Sister Marilyn

    Like trees
    Well-grounded people
    Resist disease

    Have roots firmly planted
    Embedded deeply in dreams
    Every life’s wish is granted

    Sturdy and Tall
    Provide home and shelter
    For all

    With limbs seeking sky
    They reach and teach
    All passers by

    Like trees
    Well-grounded people
    Sway in the breeze

    As storms gather round
    Dark clouds threatening
    Courage and strength abound

    Like trees
    Well-grounded people
    Fall to their knees

    In praise of beauty
    Boughs of bountiful sunlight
    Never charge duty

    Offering precious gifts
    Of life giving breath
    Generosity of trees uplifts

    The spirit of all
    Who dare to grow tall
    One day know they may fall

    These well-grounded lovers of trees
    Move with reverence, such grace
    And artistic ease

    Don’t care for trivial chatter
    When they leave, joyful seedlings
    They scatter

    Contributed by Bud Wilson, Boulder, CO

  • Five-Finger Tree

    We called it the five-finger tree…each massive trunk reaching out to touch the sky.  At 8 or 9, species meant nothing.  In the field behind our house, I’d shimmy up my favorite trunk ensconcing myself high among the branches to watch the older kids play softball.  Scrapes from its knobby bark were my trophies.  By the time I took a botany class in college the five-finger tree had been cut down, so I never found out its species.  It was and is just the five-finger tree, the hand of God holding me.

    Contributed by Laura Bertram

  • Eglé 

    Eglé
    …is the first Lithuanian word I heard my two year old daughter say. She pointed to the small fir tree my father planted in the front yard that day. “What dat Pop-Pop?” “Eglé, Marija,” was his reply. Marija came to me, took me by the hand and brought me to see the fir tree. She fondly touched the tree with those small baby hands, gave it a kiss followed by a giggle, since it tickled her face and said with a radiant smile, “Eglé, Mommy!”
    (a small fir tree, personified, through the eyes and imagination of a child).

    pronounced egg-le

    Contributed by B. Gudauskas, Philadelphia, PA

  • Earthy Tree

    Trees

    Beautiful
    Lively
    Friendly
    Loving
    earthy tree.

    Contributed by Miguel Blancarte

  • Der Maibaum

    Der Winter ist endlich vergangen. Die Natur erwacht zu neuem Leben. Aus altem, slawischem Brauchtum wurde das Aufstellen eines Mai- baumes am 1.Mai bis in die heutige Zeit übernommen. Ein sehr langer gerader Nadelbaum wird gefällt und von Ästen und Rinde befreit. Nach Möglichkeit soll der Baum mit einem Pferdefuhrwerk in die Nähe des Ortes gebracht werden, wo er am 1. Mai aufgestellt werden soll. Er muss die ganze Nacht vor dem 1. Mai gut bewacht werden. Wenn es den jungen Burschen vom Nachbarort gelingt den Baum zu stehlen, muss er teuer ausgekauft werden. Am 1. Mai wird der Baumstamm mit bunten Kräenzen oder Holzfiguren geschmückt und im Ort aufgestellt. An den Kränzen oder Figuren sind Gutscheine für kleine Geschenke angebracht. Gute Baumkletterer können dann diese Gutscheine herunterholen. Das ganze wird durch eine Musikkapelle aufgeheitert. Der Maibaum soll dem Wachstum der Natur Glück bringen und bleibt ein Jahr stehen.

    Contributed by Paula Schwaiger, Markschellenberg, Germany

  • Deep Winter

    My child and my child
    you two strong seeds
    I watch the shell around you thicken
    and understand winter’s need.
    But keep your dicotyledon selves tender –
    I will bring you sweetness for your starch
    as you await the vigor of your springtimes.

    Contributed by Steven Skaggs , USA

  • David’s Tree Story

    Growing up in Northfield, we had two trees in the front yard that were probably 50 yards apart. And my father — I had two brothers. My father had the idea of putting a rope high between the two trees and fixing a pulley system with a rope and a round seat. And then he took a — probably a one-story ladder,leaned it up against the higher tree, and you could take the swing up with you, put the round swing between your legs and glide down between the trees. And so that was our own little amusement park in the front yard

    Anyone ever get hurt?

    No. No one ever got hurt surprisingly. We even got creative in the fall. We would rake the leaves and then burn them. And then of course you’d go over them — not flaming, but smoldering. Do something kind of daring. But the trees weren’t, you know, extremely mature. And now I drive by the house in Northfield and they’re fortunately still there. But they’re very mature.

    Did you bend them?

    No, they were quite strong when we had them. But the rope had to be a good 15 feet in the air at the high point, maybe 20. Not quite 20. But the rope was angled enough that you could do that. And I think my two older brothers, myself, and my sister, all that was a tremendous enjoyment for us and the neighbor kids. Liability.

    Think of liability today.

    No. No one every got hurt.

    Contributed by David as told to the Official Court Report

  • Dark Green Anger Arising

    Greetings, Thanks for all your good work on this project! This isn’t exactly a story, it’s just a poem that I wrote inspired by an experience with a tree. I’m Marilyn’s youngest brother and sometimes I wish I was an artist too. Here is my offering:

    DARK GREEN ANGER ARISING

    Dark green anger arising
    fiercely pulsing branches
    The storm rages within and without

    The tree knows your anguish
    And shakes sympathetically until
    The winds subside

    Calm now
    The bark transfigured
    Says
    “you can hear me”
    in silence

    Contributed by Bud Wilson, Boulder, CO

  • Dance to the wind

    When I was eight or so I knew a spectacular tree. It was green in a large open field where multi acre lots all converged. No one seemed to own it. I loved this tree the most on windy days, where high in its branches I could move in unison with its dance to the wind. Sitting way at the top, it was as if the rest of the world melted away and all that existed was unlimited blue sky in which to dream.

    Contributed by Barbara Palmer

  • Childhood Memories

    One of my earliest childhood memories is when I was three. My mother pushed my crib into the upstairs bedroom window of our old farm house and I lay there looking up into the branches overhead swaying in the wind. These were tall elms-bare branches in the wintry blue sky. I felt as though I floated with them in deep blue.

    Contributed by Kirsten Christianson, Algoma, WI

  • Cattail Stalks

    there is a stirring in the treetops of the

    mulberry

    willow

    oak

    as though the august earth wished for rain

    under the great oak is a bench where I sit
    sometimes at dusk

    it faces lime cliffs and the remains of a village called
    “le vieux castillon” abandoned centuries ago

    still as a tree stump i sit just looking
    the garden cat’s tail weaves through grasses
    to join me

    she is a master at walking gracefully
    and sitting still

    once we saw two foxes feasting on fallen plums
    and a young boar standing stock still in the meadow
    looking towards us


    wild creatures bend to drink from the translucent spring

    by Giselle Maya, France, published in a fine journal called ‘contemporary haibun online’

  • Becoming

    even now
    in the midst of spring’s
    green and glorious abundances

    trees whisper of the coming of winter

    their voices – sweet and high
    subtle murmurs in the wind

    recalling long forgotten landscapes
    remembering footprints and laughing children
    recording the unspoken promises of lovers

    ring
    after ring
    after ring

    life’s ebb and flow…here

    our Elders – earthbound only
    by the circles of our mutual existence

    even now
    these breath-taking, life-giving magicians
    dream of changing spring into summer into fall into winter

    becoming and becoming and becoming…

    tables and chairs
    food and medicine
    music and fire…

    gracefully relinquishing
    leaf and root and bark

    surrendering all in the name of transformation

    and here
    leaf-fluttering and limb-creaking
    they hope that you, yourself

    will witness them as art
    even while remembering them as trees…

    Contributed by Tricia Alexander, Chicago, IL

  • At the Fire

    When folks come together around a campfire…there should be time to just sit quietly and listen. For the songs of the fire are sacred!

    Those songs come from the spirits in the wood. They sing about the sun blinking on and off… they sing about the wind and the rain…they sing about the seasons. Their songs are part of the sacred songs of the Earth…given to us as a reminder of days gone by.

    The history of the wood is in those flames and in those songs…stories of the Earth…which will not be told again in that same way. And that smoke in the tree giving its body back to the Earth…its work is done…and its Spirit rises to leave this place forever.

    Watch that fire…there are Spirits in there…some you know…and some, you have never known. But they are like messengers and are there to explain things to you.

    Campfires give us that opportunity to listen…and to hear those special stories again. Ordinarily we don’t have the patience to understand the way trees speak…the way they form their words…the way they use gestures. Such things are foreign to us and we might be frightened. So they send their messages up with the smoke…and it is sacred…and it is part of our oral traditions.

    So when you are sitting around the campfire with friends…share this wisdom. Encourage others to listen to the songs of the fire; that they might feel that sacred message too…and find that deeper understanding of Earth Mother’s ways.

    Ho Hecetu Welo!

    An unknown Elder

    This story was by Rob Miller at the flute circle/Mitchell Indian Museum

  • Analogy of the oak

    One of my protegé asked me how I knew what I wanted to do in life. And what led me to where I am now.  She said she was interested in working with bears and how could she get into that.  whenever I answer questions like this I use the analogy of the oak.  When you decide that you want to go to a certain goal, you focus on the road ahead. The road is like the tree trunk.
    But along the way you may take different paths to gain experience and to network and pursue your interests.  These paths are like the branches.  Some of these are longer than others.  It doesn’t mean you have lost your focus, it means you are getting experiences along the way.  Some of the longer ones may stop you a little.  You may stay at the end of that particular branch and explore for awhile. When you finally get to your goal, you are confident, experienced, and have learned many things you can use at the end.
    Or, maybe you even decide you want to go back and pursue something you never thought you’d want.  The tree has many, many possibilities, and large and small branches, much like life.  So please explore your tree so you may get to the top and branch out yourself!

    Contributed by Pattik Singingbird K., Wheeling, IL

  • A Valued Friend

    Every day, except when the road is iced over, I walk a half mile down our road and back. My tree stands at a bend in the road. It is a very tall pine and quite old. It is quite large at the base, at about 20 feet tall it has split into three branches which grow up towards the sky. I call it my triune tree, three individuals growing as one. Every walk I talk with tree, and on the way back, I check how much energy tree gives to me. Some days I feel tree’s energy only about 6 inches out, some days I can feel the energy at 2-4 feet away. I feel that I give tree as much as I receive, at least I hope I am. I have only known tree since 1992. Tree has become a valued friend.

    Contributed by Rhoda Sharpe

  • A Hurricane…

    Several years ago a hurricane came very far inland in North Carolina and my parents lost many trees they loved very much, including a large black walnut. I made a table top out of one large slab and paper out of some of the bark, curtains for my house and a book for my father. A small mill operator was able to come to the land and mill many of the large trees on site into lumber that is stacked and ready to build with. Someday they hope to build a house with it.

    Contributed by Ann Silverman, Columbus OH

  • From Loss is Knowing

    TREES

    Greater gift: from loss comes knowing
    Albert, Daddy, we knew trees,
    longer standing than us, soft flesh
    race of beings cruel and mobile

    Albert loved them as the summer
    whispering gracious home blown blues
    affirmation’s stately beauty
    branched stark-angled, snow furred views

    Trees: the more for giving children
    nature as he never had,
    greening of his concrete blood
    version of his parents’ land.

    Cement flows toward where he stands
    “This all to do with puttin’ in new curb”
    dodged the ugly same no longer
    murder ‘snuck’ across his path.

    “They killed it like you kill a person�”
    left an eight foot stump, hard to snuff
    deep, multilayered limbs of love.
    His anger falls unguided into pain.

    Trees: the more for giving children
    nature, as he had never had
    Greater gift: from loss is knowing
    Albert, Daddy, gave us trees.

    Contributed by Akua Lezli Hope, New York