A Certain Time of Morning

I drink coffee instead of booze, which is a mighty good thing. Minkins, of course, is awake. Ratty and Max are less so. Minkins is the cat I raised as an orphan, from birth, when his mother died. I don't know if my waking at odd hours has something to do with Minkins being awake or not. When his eyes opened, about 15 years ago, he imprinted on me and Eddie Spirit dog, my service animal.

Here's his picture.

He's the one that likes to shove his feet under the laptop to warm his toes...

I thought of death the other day, I don't remember why, now. I have been there for the deaths of several people, and it is mysterious to me as it has been for tens of thousands of years. I have nothing to add to our knowledge of death, just the observation that it is, in it's own way, filled with awe. It's quietness is inspiring. After life, as Shakespeare would have it, "Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing," there is nothing but the tree outside the window.

My parents both died in the same room. It was my Mother's choice to move to Dad's room after he died, so that she could die in the room he died in. And she did. That's devotion, and I have seen nothing else like it.

The same tree, outside that window, watched them both die. It died a few weeks after my Mom. It was impinging on the septic tank, but nothing would induce her to cut it down. It had been there for my Dad's death, and it would be there for hers, was the way she looked at it. My Dad had loved it, and looked at it often, and damned if she wouldn't. That's how my parents felt about trees...

When my brother and I assessed the Old House for sale, the tree went. It pained us both to kill a tree, but prospective owners would notice it's location when the realtor pointed out the septic tank. After all, there was no reason for anyone else to love the tree, except us. So, it had to go.

It was an ordinary tree, not one we had planted. It was a 'volunteer' that grew wild, right outside that window. I don't even know what kind of tree it was. It was just their tree.

My brother and I feel the same way about trees, although I am more sentimental about it, I think. I don't know. My brother, Marc, is a very sentimental man, he got it from Mom. Anyway, I do know how I feel about trees. My family plants trees with a good deal of symbolism involved. Crepe myrtles, because that was Dad's favorite tree. So it was Mom's favorite tree as well.

Of course, it pains me to say that the new owners of the Old House cut down every crepe myrtle on the property, and my lovely tulip tree, as well. I try not to think about the death of all those trees. Who in the hell cuts down ornamental trees? They also dug up and sodded the garden, but let's not talk about that: my outrage knows no bounds on that point. Apparently, they like grass, and it is significant, and speaks to them the way trees do not...

Trees spoke to my family, still speak. Wherever Mom and Dad are, there are sure to be trees. When I was young, I noticed that if I stood on tree roots, and didn't touch the ground, I could feel some sort of force that came from the tree. I still feel that force today, and love to stand on the roots of trees. It's a bit of a hum, with some wild love thrown in for good measure.

It reminds me of the wild electricity of a storm, with a strong wind, in it's fierceness. I suppose that's why I go to the woods, to visit my higher Power.

And why I think of the Old House as the way it was, not how it is now. With all the trees intact, and vibrating. With the sunshine lying easy on the trees and the field below. Nothing can take the Old House and it's trees from me. Those crepe myrtles and that tulip tree live forever. And some of Eddie Spirit dog's ashes are spread under the Japanese Maple they left alive, that Dad planted.

Back to the wild things this morning. I have a maple tree now, in this new place, and too many trees to count that grow wild, above the maple, on the slope up the hill. I am fond of maples, and this is a good hearted tree, and of course, looks spectacular as it can manage in the fall. It has good sized roots, and my dog, Max's, line is tied to it. I do have to cut the poison ivy back that grows along it's base, but that's not the maple's fault...

Trees are significant to one of my housemates as well. He plants evergreen trees, in memory of his son, who died 10 years ago. The boy was 21. So there are white pines, Christmas trees, in the front yard, and then again in back, in "Bobbie's garden." Roses and angels also predominate in the yard. Those ever blooming roses, more pink and fuchsia than fire engine red. My Mom would like the yard, and Dad would like the maple, and so I have something of my own here. There is also the lavender I have planted, for my Mother.

I would like a tree to be there when I go. And, whomever spreads my ashes, I would like the rest of Eddie's ashes to be mixed with mine and spread under the trees, along Tinker Creek, on the paths that Eddie and I walked, on the Hollins University campus...

I know that sentence is too long, but my heart overflows at this point. I need to open the window and listen to the maple, this morning.