Divisive/Decisive and Dogwood Trees
Dogwood trees, for whatever reason, hold a special place in my heart – they, along with cherry trees, are one of the few things about spring that don't make me grumble. Like most things near and dear, they have stories attached to them. I recall a dogwood in my grandmother's front yard with particularly low-hanging branches. It wasn't strong enough to climb on, certainly, but it formed a great, semi-enclosed space that I could pretend was my own.
I don't know if the following stories are the result of an overactive imagination and a hazy memory, or if my great-aunt Mimi actually told them to me, but here are a couple of myths about dogwoods that I remember from my childhood:
Myth #1: The four petals of a dogwood blossom symbolize the cross upon which Christ was sacrificed, and the green seeds in the center represent the crown of thorns.
Myth #2: Christ was crucified on wood from a dogwood tree, and the tree, seeing the use to which it had been put, begged God to never allow such a thing to happen again, and ever since, dogwoods have grown thin and spindly.
And yes, because of the above memory, I had a very conflicted relationship with dogwoods during the militant atheism of my adolescence – but really, what didn't I have a conflicted relationship with then?
I mellowed out, and really never gave the trees a thought beyond, “Oh, how pretty,” for quite some time.
This year, though, I had occasion to reconsider the dogwood, when one fell across my parents' driveway after a particularly blustery storm. They made a valiant effort to re-root the tree, an effort that I'm told involved car jacks, ropes, my father's truck and many hours. The tree had continued to grow healthily for the past few months, bolstered by supports, and I had taken to calling it “The Nietzsche Tree,” because the thought of the effort it took to re-root it conjured to mind a cartoon image from an Intro to Philosophy text, with the philosopher in question bending a tree in illustration of man bending his world to his will.
The world bends back, you know. Especially when you don't put enough soil over the roots. So, the tree is down again. I offered my assistance in re-re-rooting it, which was turned down almost immediately. Still, I decided after work to stop by and observe, if not attend, in the process.
As is the wont with my family, nothing happened. My mother had led me to believe, and genuinely believed herself, that the plan was to re-root the tree. My father, as is his wont, had/claimed no knowledge of this plan, as he ascended the driveway with a chainsaw. My mother asked if he was planning to cut it down, he replied in the affirmative, and she said nothing more, but glared and went back inside. I decided that I wanted no part in destroying the green leafy thing, declared as much, both calmly and loudly for once, and got in my car to go home. My father called after me, “So, you don't want me to cut it down?”
“No.” I replied simply, baffled as to how he hadn't gotten that impression from his wife moments earlier, and went on my way. My brother later called to inform me that, according to Wikipedia, the average lifespan of a dogwood is 25 years, and that since the tree was of an appreciable size when I was born, it likely had few years left anyway. I asked him if he'd called because Dad thought I was upset, and he said yes. I assumed that meant they had cut the tree down, but he told me they hadn't decided yet. I told him that, at this point, it really didn't matter what I thought – it's not my tree; it can't just sit there healthily; and furthermore, they can't continue driving across the yard to get out of the house – they needed to make a decision, regardless of whether or not I supported it.
Then, I made a decision, after weeks of mulling over my options – it was time to replace my laptop. I don't need all the things I think I need – all I need is something on which I can write, access the internet, and edit the occasional image – and I bought a machine that is capable of doing just that, and that fit my budget.
On my way home, I drove past my parents' house again, to see what they had chosen. As usual, they'd chosen inaction, and the poor dogwood remained draped across the concrete driveway, making everyone's life a little more difficult.
I don't know if the following stories are the result of an overactive imagination and a hazy memory, or if my great-aunt Mimi actually told them to me, but here are a couple of myths about dogwoods that I remember from my childhood:
Myth #1: The four petals of a dogwood blossom symbolize the cross upon which Christ was sacrificed, and the green seeds in the center represent the crown of thorns.
Myth #2: Christ was crucified on wood from a dogwood tree, and the tree, seeing the use to which it had been put, begged God to never allow such a thing to happen again, and ever since, dogwoods have grown thin and spindly.
And yes, because of the above memory, I had a very conflicted relationship with dogwoods during the militant atheism of my adolescence – but really, what didn't I have a conflicted relationship with then?
I mellowed out, and really never gave the trees a thought beyond, “Oh, how pretty,” for quite some time.
This year, though, I had occasion to reconsider the dogwood, when one fell across my parents' driveway after a particularly blustery storm. They made a valiant effort to re-root the tree, an effort that I'm told involved car jacks, ropes, my father's truck and many hours. The tree had continued to grow healthily for the past few months, bolstered by supports, and I had taken to calling it “The Nietzsche Tree,” because the thought of the effort it took to re-root it conjured to mind a cartoon image from an Intro to Philosophy text, with the philosopher in question bending a tree in illustration of man bending his world to his will.
The world bends back, you know. Especially when you don't put enough soil over the roots. So, the tree is down again. I offered my assistance in re-re-rooting it, which was turned down almost immediately. Still, I decided after work to stop by and observe, if not attend, in the process.
As is the wont with my family, nothing happened. My mother had led me to believe, and genuinely believed herself, that the plan was to re-root the tree. My father, as is his wont, had/claimed no knowledge of this plan, as he ascended the driveway with a chainsaw. My mother asked if he was planning to cut it down, he replied in the affirmative, and she said nothing more, but glared and went back inside. I decided that I wanted no part in destroying the green leafy thing, declared as much, both calmly and loudly for once, and got in my car to go home. My father called after me, “So, you don't want me to cut it down?”
“No.” I replied simply, baffled as to how he hadn't gotten that impression from his wife moments earlier, and went on my way. My brother later called to inform me that, according to Wikipedia, the average lifespan of a dogwood is 25 years, and that since the tree was of an appreciable size when I was born, it likely had few years left anyway. I asked him if he'd called because Dad thought I was upset, and he said yes. I assumed that meant they had cut the tree down, but he told me they hadn't decided yet. I told him that, at this point, it really didn't matter what I thought – it's not my tree; it can't just sit there healthily; and furthermore, they can't continue driving across the yard to get out of the house – they needed to make a decision, regardless of whether or not I supported it.
Then, I made a decision, after weeks of mulling over my options – it was time to replace my laptop. I don't need all the things I think I need – all I need is something on which I can write, access the internet, and edit the occasional image – and I bought a machine that is capable of doing just that, and that fit my budget.
On my way home, I drove past my parents' house again, to see what they had chosen. As usual, they'd chosen inaction, and the poor dogwood remained draped across the concrete driveway, making everyone's life a little more difficult.
posted by Beth | 1:32 AM
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