A few weeks ago Erik and I got together for drinks and commiserated over the fact that we both seem to be suffering from allergies this year. I'm not sure what my problem is, but Erik walked out of his apartment one morning this spring, sniffling and sneezing and itchy-eyed, only to realize that all of the trees on his block, recent additions to the neighborhood as part of Mayor Bloomberg's MillionTreesNYC program, were in full bloom.
A small price to pay, perhaps, for the joy of living on a block chock full of flowering trees. But I'm left with this vision of millions of New Yorkers, used to our concrete unadulterated, left to the mercy of the million trees, sneezing and sniffling and bleary-eyed, clutching packages of Benedryl and Claritin and Zyrtec and Sudafed, leaving crumpled, mucousy, Kleenex trails behind us like snails.
Do you think maybe Mayor Michael and the drug industry are in cahoots?
But enough tree teasing. There was a lovely piece today in the City section of the Times, bite-sized stories from various New Yorkers about their favorite trees, and it got me to thinking about the trees I have known.
I would be hard-pressed to pick one favorite tree.
The magnolia tree in our front yard up in Mohegan Lake would have to be near the top of the list, I think. Every spring I looked forward to its blooming, and thought its flowers, thick waxy petals a pristine white on the inside, pale lavender on the outside, among the most beautiful things in the world. But they only lasted a week, or so it seemed, and then Nate and I had to rake them up before they rotted on the ground.
The Japanese maple that grew outside of my bedroom window in that same house might have to be my favorite tree in the world. I loved to sit on the window seat in my attic bedroom, reading, sunlight filtering in through its flame-red leaves.
But then there is the old apple orchard in Idaho, and the particular apple tree under which the ashes of my father and my grandfather are buried. I cannot say that I love this particular apple tree for itself, exactly. It is not especially beautiful, nor have I spent very much time with it. But as the final resting place for two of the most important people in my life, and eventually, I imagine (not to be too morbid or anything), as my own final resting place, I can't help but hold it close to my heart.
I'd love to hear other people's tales of trees they have loved, the where, the when, and the why.
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2 comments:
Oh wow, I never thought to blame Bloomberg's gren initiatives for my allergies! But I have to say that this year has been the worst for allergies that I've ever had in my time in NYC.
My favorite tree is probably a weeping willow that stands on the grounds of one of the apartment complexes where I grew up in Portland. We lived there from 2nd-6th grade, and I loved that tree. I'd never really seen such a huge weeping willow, and its shape astonished me, but I loved even more all of the whippy 'branches' -more like vines- that ended up on the ground that I could incorporate into my play, using it to tie sticks together in all sorts of gratifying Swiss Family Robinson ways.
I'm definitely living in Allergy Death this year, where the rule seems to be, "incline your head back more than 15 degrees, and your nose shall stuff up."
One of my favorite kinds of trees were dotted around my college's campus. Unfortunately, I have no idea what type they were, but their standout feature in my opinion was that new branches would grow out of it looking like clusters of threatening spikes! Now this alone wouldn't make it a favorite. It was more about how the dew clung delicately to them on foggy, dreary days, and the bark would take on this dusky gray color that shattered the white churning sky. The leaves offered a stark contrast though, turning into these bright yellow fern-shaped things just in time for Autumn.
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