Pierre's Tree

When I was in my early twenties, I rented a small house from a man named Pierre. The house was in a cul-de-sac. He owned all of the surrounding homes. When Pierre learned that I did tree work, he asked me to cut down a twenty-foot Evergreen because it stood too close to one of his buildings. It was a Yew, a favorite of mine. I suggested that he might move the tree and use it to screen a busy road. I said it would cost $75 to cut the tree down and $150 to move it. I was young and enthusiastic. Pierre saw that and the value of the tree. It was fall, and the Yew was dug by hand, pulled from the ground with block and tackle, pushed up a ramp by four pairs of hands, and driven forty feet to its new home. This took two days. Twenty five years later the tree is strong and beautiful. It's probably over 60 years old now.
—John Duvall

Tree on the Way Home from the Library

When I was about 7, living in the East Bronx, in 1945, I would take my weekly Saturday hike to the Washington Avenue branch of the neighborhood public library. I don’t know how I crossed those busy streets by myself. Nobody was watching me, I would just go. I’d return the old batch of books, and pick up a new one. It was a huge amount of walking. I had flat feet, so they put me in these shoes with arches, and my feet would hurt. I don’t know how long it took me. It must have been 10-12 blocks. I had to go underneath the train, across Tremont Avenue, and the library was on the left hand side. I would spend a long time in the library getting my new books, and then I would walk home. Going there was downhill but going back was uphill. I got tired holding the books. There was this one tree. I don’t remember what it looked like. It was very big and wide and high. I didn’t look up, but the tree had a place to sit and rest my feet. I would sit there and relax and rest a minute. I’d catch my breath, then head home.—Beverly Bader

Kids in a Forest

Cars with Christmas Trees

I was brought up the youngest in a large family. Suddenly everyone was out of the house, blockbusting severely ravaged our close-knit neighborhood and my mother, who was sick for years, died of cancer. All this when I was 15. On my 17th birthday I enlisted in the Navy and though my orders which would have likely sent me to Viet Nam were rescinded, I was already a casualty from all the drastic changes of those past few years. When I got married and started having kids my four year old commented one day how he loved seeing cars with Christmas trees on the roof during the holidays and the happiness it implied. When I saw a Rockwell illustration from the '50's of a happy New England family speeding by with a car full of happy kids and a tree on the roof it soothed the sting of a long ago ache. For the past twelve years I'd buy an extra tree and attach it to the roof of our van for the two weeks leading up to Christmas. Perhaps some kids would joyously take note...perhaps even an adult or two. —Mike Lennon

Old Willow Tree

"A block or two west of the new City of Man in Turtle Bay there is an old willow tree that presides over an interior garden. It is a battered tree, long suffering and much climbed, held together by strands of wire but beloved of those who know it. In a way it symbolizes the city: life under difficulties, growth against odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete, and the steady reaching for the sun. Whenever I look at it nowadays, and feel the cold shadow of the planes, I think: 'This must be saved, this particular thing, this very tree.' If it were to go, all would go—this city, this mischievevous and marvelous monument which not to look upon would be like death."
—E.B.White, Here is New York

Aunt Tillie's Tree

Not far from my parent’s apartment in the Bronx, my Uncle Max and Aunt Tillie had a small country home in Stelton, NJ, a place that my parents took us as a retreat from the bustling city life. It was a paradise with gardens, lawns and lots of trees. The fresh air wasn’t the only reason we visited. My aunt’s cooking from her garden was perhaps the best ever. My favorite treat was her berry jams and homemade pies.

The old-fashioned well pump and swing were perhaps my favorite place to play in the backyard. But there was also one particular tree that became a jungle gym for my brother and me. Robert was six years older and much more able to climb the interweaving branches. I don’t remember what kind of tree it was, but the hornet’s nest called it home way up near the top.

Being only five, I eventually I got the hang of it and was climbing as high as he could. Fortunately, the hornets never bothered us because we never bothered them. Somehow that tree became our home and an adventure for a child’s imagination. We could you see all the other homes and yards from this vantage point. We could become sailors looking out for Pirates or great giraffes or floating clouds hovering way above the grass below.

At the end of the weekend, when it was almost time to leave, I usually gave my parents the slip. Just as they were ready to go back home, they discovered I was missing. Immediately, they had everyone searching high and low, praying I hadn’t fallen into a well or went too far and got lost. But all the while, I watched. I was perched way up high among the branches, hidden from view. After all, this was my retreat and a place that was just as much a home as anything else I knew.

By the way, that’s my brother in the tree. He’s gone now, but not from my memory. Sometimes I can still hear the wind through the leaves, and we are smiling at each other.
—Peter Scheer

Shirley's Tree

I have a tree that means a lot to me. It is about 13 years old. When my sister died, we were cleaning up her yard to get ready to sell her house and found baby red maple trees from her neighbors tree. She always loved that tree, so I took the babies and planted them in my yard. I am sending a picture of "Shirley's tree." I think of her often as I look at it.—Nancy LeRoy

Red Oak By The Garage in the Morning