Cloudy, rain in pm, 50's. Finished ironing in am, did some cleaning. Made pair of pajamas for Mrs. Mayo and fixed dress. Wayne's here in the evening. Tree just starting to show green in places.
Comment: "Tree" is the one on the front lawn on the left of the house. A maple transplanted from a rocky spot in woods across the road because Dad said a tree growing on rocks would have the best chance of surviving transplant. That tree took a lot of abuse from bullets to hatchets and just general beatings with stones and sticks...and it always thrived. We planted two at the time but the right one never made it. The kids may have girdled is somehow and killed it, but not sure....you can see the surviving tree with a big notch cut in the branches for the telephone lines. The view is to the west toward Grand Gorge and Stamford.....Here is a draft of a songpoemstory I'm trying to write about:
That Old Tree
In the northwest Catskill mountains there’s a tree upon a lawn
And it must have viewed a million scenes of joy and rights and wrongs
Bore storms of rain and ice and sleet and winds that cut to bone
And all the time surveilled the stead that eight kids called our home
Near eighty years it stands there still, it drew a lot of grief
From kids and cows and cats and dogs that used it for relief
To scratch and mark their turf and climb the shady branches high
To revel in the rustling leaves and sights of endless sky
Thirty-thirty, twenty twos and shotgun slugs galore
Have pierced its hide and left the scars that fingers can explore
Almost girdled several times with axes, saws, and knives
It took it all and stands there tall, a sentinel of our lives
Dad got it from a rocky patch because of country lore
“Sown on stone, thrive in soil, it’s hardy to the core..”
Births and deaths and family rifts, it stood in silent guard
As family worked and wept and wed around and in the yard
Butchered pigs and deer and calves were hung from that old tree
It anchored wagons, cars and trucks and bulls that tried to flee
It shaded picnics, broken hearts and lots of books to read
It stood there silent, statuesque and never seemed to heed
The measles, mumps, and broken bones, pink eye, and ticks, and stings
Bruises, scratches, bumps and cuts, kicks and bites and dings
Eight kids living “country” and growing up real fast
Just working for the future, not caring for the past
Marine Corps, Army, Navy called to get us off the farm
Five kids served and five came home safe and free from harm
Homecomings sweet and shaded all around that battered tree
It stood there silent, watching? I wonder, “Could it see?”
And did it revel in the glee and suffer from the sad
And did it comprehend at all the mere short time we had
While it could live two hundred years, standing tall and straight
The youngest son at fifty-eight passed through that final gate
About a hundred years from now with all great grandkids grown
When all of us and our kids are bare and silent bone
Will they go back up to “The Hill” to smell and feel and see
The wonder and the magic of that dauntless, scarred old tree?
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