Propositioning the Tree Guy:
He had a line on some fine trees. I baked pies. Could we make a deal?
I drive by the houses where I used to live in this small midwestern city and see all the trees I planted a decade ago. The Salix babylonica, once a baby weeping willow, now hugs the hillside in a fierce embrace. The serviceberry tree, the Bloodgood Japanese maple, that darling dogwood—all are thriving, without my help. I remember the work that went into planting those trees, the machinations and obfuscations and calculations I believed were necessary instead of just plainly asking for what I needed: grace, beauty, and blessings in shades of green.
I sneaked around back then, feeling guilty for spending money on trees. We were pretty broke. There was enough for the mortgage and food and gas, but not enough to splurge on a Yoshino cherry or a black locust, intoxicatingly fragrant with nectar-rich flowers. Occasionally, giving in to temptation, I would purchase a tree from a fancy nursery and drag it into the backyard unnoticed, hoping to plant it later in secrecy. I didn’t realize in those cash-strapped days that my worried husband, now my ex-husband, kept close tabs on the balance of our checking account. With the simple click of a button, he could track the moods and excesses of my profligate heart. Bags of mulch on sale at Home Depot, that pot of Lavandula latifolia from Lowe’s, the weird purple-black hollyhocks from Walmart? All these purchases and more found their way to the backyard. My husband knew. Oh, he knew. How could he not?
After all, how easy is it to hide an eight-foot Cornus florida?
I have lived in so many places, nesting in so many odd domiciles. Most were simple, modest containers; a few had good bones, and more than one required a facelift. Of all of the houses I’ve lived in, the one I’m living in now makes me the happiest, a solid, brick, prairie-style box with inglenooks, oak floors, a stained glass skylight at the top of the stairs. I miss this house when I go away. I pine for it the way you pine for a lover, and when I come home, I always bring it gifts: wind chimes, a sand dollar, sun catchers to capture the kitchen light. Once upon a time, the house was ugly, scarred, and misunderstood. Now it shines, a fractured, imperfect diamond of place. Sudden rooms, brand new vistas. It is mine, it is me.
I’ve talked to you before about my neighborhood, and how I have an uneasy peace with my busy street. I live sandwiched between rental houses on either side of me, occupied by people who work hard, who have kids and pets and loud cars with no off-street parking, people whose candles burn just as brightly as my own. I’ve written about the long gray winters here, the wisteria that grows like kudzu in the summer, the worrisome feral kittens that play in the streets, and the nighttime pop of gunshots. I’ve been euphoric about my front porch, the sounds of the ice cream truck, my backyard tomatoes, and the mentally disabled man who rides his big, three-wheeled trike around and around the block, never straying far from home. People come and go here. They work odd hours. I see them moving in, lugging cat carriers and coffee makers, cradling dishes and boxes of spices, antique clocks, and faded quilts. They root and suddenly, they’re in flight again.
The neighborhood itself is always evolving, a messy, living organism. In a world of moods and seasons, it sheds and shudders and shivers and hibernates. It orders pizza at midnight, brawls in the alleys, calls 9-1-1 and sets off firecrackers that scare my dogs. Those are the times when I contemplate leaving. And yet there are good times too: little girls in bathing suits running through the sprinklers on hot July afternoons, fresh-cut garden basil, friends from across the street dropping by to talk, lost cats who find homes. Then, all is forgiven. We rub along, alone, together, our yard signs speaking for us: Black Lives Matter, Don’t Tread on Me, Love is Love, Trump for President, Science is Real. Mostly it’s fine, as long as nobody tries to steal my heirloom roses.
Earlier this year, city workers dug up and repaved my famously uneven, tire-flattening street, and when they were done, the neighborhood looked shell-shocked, disheveled, and exposed, like someone who got up in the morning and forgot to put on their toupee. Madison Avenue: without its dentures, looking shorn. This is not a good look for an iffy street in a so-so neighborhood. That’s why I’ve been planting trees this year. I need some green to settle my nerves and soften the nakedness.
At certain times of year here (fall and spring), it’s possible to get free trees. You can call the city’s forestry division, get your name on a list, and if there’s money in the budget and the timing is right, in a few months the tree people will come out and plant a tree for you, right in front of your house. The tree isn’t officially yours—it’s planted in the green space between the sidewalk and the street, but if you’re like me and you love trees, there is a sense of kinship, a feeling of “us” that transcends petty things like boundaries. You can even pick the kind of tree you want, within reason. The city will water the tree for the first year, outfitting it with a protective water bag girdled around its trunk.
But you can’t just order a poplar at the drop of a hat. There’s a system, protocol, a queue. Mostly if you want a free tree, you’ll get one sooner or later. You just have to be patient.
Until two months ago, I didn’t know anything about the city’s tree program. I’d never heard of a city forester, I didn’t know about any free trees and I’d certainly never heard of any waiting list to get one. All I knew was it was fall, my street was bare, and the people on other blocks were getting really cute Acer Sun Valley maples planted on their green strips, all zipped into their plastic watering bags, snug and ready for winter.
Could I have a tree? I called the city and talked to James Wills, the tree supervisor for the forestry division. He was well aware that my street had been plowed up and taken some hard horticultural hits. My street, I said, looked like Beirut, bombed out and hollow and downright lonely. I told him how much I loved trees, how I’d splurged on expensive redbuds at the end of summer, how my heart had been broken when my Rising Sun redbud had died, and how desperately I wanted to see more trees in the neighborhood. Words tumbled out: bald cypress, purple-robed locust, Flamethrower redbud, silver maple. Trees always get me excited. I got emotional. I asked him, please, could I have a tree? Near the front of the house?
James, who is not excitable, mostly listened and tried to get a word in. He said the city was just about done planting for this fall. He mentioned the waiting list, and how probably I could get a tree in six months or so. You know, in the spring. Every year the city plants 200 to 300 plants along the green strips in front of people’s homes. I could get one then.
Look, I said, and my voice went up a few notches. I really need a tree. I’d already gone to Home Depot a few weeks ago and bought two trees for myself with my own personal money but I couldn’t spend any more cash on trees and I certainly couldn't wait until spring for another one.
“I’ll tell you what,” I told him. “If you let me have a tree this fall, I’ll—I’ll bake you an apple pie.”
It was quiet on James Wills’ end. Was he smiling? Rolling his eyes? Checking his watch? I really couldn’t read the silence. I wheedled some more and pleaded and, hating myself, spoke once again about how much a tree on the green strip in front of my house would mean to me. Enough already, I told myself.
Hmm, James said. He took a breath. Then he said gently, what kind of a tree did I think I would like?
Since I happened to have a copy of the city’s “Recommended Tree List,” I had already studied up on Carpinus Caroliniana hornbeams and Prunus virginiana chokecherries and all the different kinds of crabapples that look so fetching in May. But instead of demanding something really fancy, I asked him what kind of tree he thought would thrive. The wind blows hard in my neighborhood, dogs and people meander and leave trash on the strip of green space. Snow plows can leave chemical salts, damaging a tree’s tissue. James knew all these things.
The city forester thought for a minute. Then he said a ginkgo tree would be an excellent choice. Ginkgos are hardy, sturdy, and tough. Bingo! A gingko! I started getting excited again, started babbling about how I loved those beautiful trees with their fan-shaped leaves, how, why, they were practically dinosaurs, ancient, primordial. I mentioned baking him a pie again and winning my eternal gratitude, if only …
James took a breath and then uttered the four words most of us have learned to distrust: let’s wait and see. Weeks went by.
On Nov. 7—Election Day—I got up at 3 a.m. to make cinnamon rolls at the church I go to from time to time. The church, which was also serving as a polling place, planned to sell hot fresh cinnamon rolls to the people waiting in line to vote.
After my shift in the kitchen, I taught my creative writing class at the university, then came home and walked my dogs. November 7 was turning out to be a brutally long, cinnamon-dusted day, wreathed in hope, and sticky with anxiety. If Issue 1 passed, women would have the right “to carry out reproductive decisions” when it came to conception, fertility, and yes, abortion, up to about 22 weeks. If it failed, abortion would likely be illegal after six weeks of pregnancy. Could I live in a state where that was the law?
In the afternoon, I noticed a lone tree, about twelve feet tall, standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, its heavy root ball wrapped in burlap. I read the tag. It was an autumn gold ginkgo tree.
A guy from the city, riding a backhoe, was there to dig a big hole. He waved to me.
A dump truck poured rich good soil into the hole; more hands guided the ginkgo into its new home.
I gave everybody who helped jars of homemade salsa as a thank-you present, even though it was against the rules for the city workers to accept gifts. When I woke up the next morning, I learned that Issue 1 had passed. Hallelujah! Ohio could still be my home; I would live here and I would thrive.
As I was writing this story, preparing to send it to all of you, I wondered if James knew what a big deal that tree was to me. I called him on Monday to personally thank him.
“You probably don’t remember me, but I’m the woman who offered to make you a pie if I could get a tree a few weeks ago, even though I’d missed the fall deadline and my name wasn’t on the list,” I said. “You must’ve thought I was being really pushy.”
He laughed. “I don’t think you were pushy at all, I think you’re passionate. I like passionate people.” It turns out he understood about loving trees, the need to talk about them, to watch them, to grow them. He said I was exactly the kind of person the city wants when it comes to planting trees in public spaces. We have a partnership, a passionate partnership.
I do my tree planting in the daylight these days, out in front of everybody, without guilt. It isn’t a sin to love trees, to need them, and to glory in their transformations. Other things have changed since I was broke all those years ago: I know exactly how much money is in my checking account, and if I feel the urge to splurge, I do it without groveling. Someone has to keep track of things. It’s me and dogs and the cat and the trees, always the trees. They count as family too.
😊
I am so happy you got your tree! And I loved reading about your interactions with the tree guy. That's what I love about your writing (other than your beautiful, joyful voice): every day is full of stories. It's a good reminder.