Goodbye Old Tree

Last week, five men showed up on our property at 8 a.m. and proceeded to cut down a tree. Not just any tree, but a 100+ foot, seventy-year-old big leaf maple. A tree that towered over me as a child, and a tree that sheltered the front of our house as an adult. A tree that bursts into green in the spring, and glows a vibrant yellow in the fall. A tree that sheds all of its leaves in November, leaves that we are still often raking into the new year. A tree that has grown humongous roots and been circled for decades by flowers: tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, bluebells, and forget-me-nots. A fairy ring, Els used to call it, Els who planted most of those flowers during the forty years that she lived here. I have only lived here for four. But as a young child, I lived next door for ten.

When I was young, Frank used to climb up in the tree himself to take out the dead limbs. I remember my parents talking about it, and Els being nervous. He took out two of the main limbs himself when they were dying, which left two massive remaining ones-- still plenty of tree. In recent years, I had noticed that the leaves on one side of the tree looked smaller- a sign of decay. There was also a smaller dead limb in the middle—“smaller”, yet still large enough that it would likely be fatal if it fell on your head. Maple is hard wood.

This year, we finally decided that we needed to get serious and do something about the tree. Our neighbors had politely enquired about its safety shortly after one of our big cedars came down one day into their backyard, missing their house by a few feet. Root rot. We hadn’t a clue.

We got several bids and no one could tell us anything conclusive without expensive testing, but everyone agreed that the maple was in its “twilight years”, and showing signs of decay. Some suggested erecting a cable that would bind together the two main limbs and prevent “catastrophic failure”, but another said that this would not guarantee that the tree would not fall. Either onto our house, onto the neighbor’s house, into the street and power lines, or- worst case scenario-- onto a person. Even if a cable could buy us a few more years or at most another decade of enjoying the tree, it was still on its way out. So we decided to shell out the big bucks and have it removed as recommended.

I thought the tree guys would be here all day; that’s what I’d been told, and even that had seemed fast to me. But when they got to work by 8:15, I could tell it would go even faster. Our family of three stood by the window and watched as the arborist spun around on a rope, wielding the saw. Crash! Down came the first branches. Down, down, down. Before we knew it, he was already working on the main two trunks, sectioning off chunks that fell with loud booms. Meanwhile, four guys with orange hard hats scampered below, wielding their own chainsaws, pulling the smaller branches up the steps to be chipped, and leaving us a pile of rounds for firewood.

Cedar was mesmerized. We ate our oatmeal on the daybed, staring out the window. Down, down, down, came the tree. By 10:00, the whine of the chainsaws was starting to get to me so I decided to take Cedar out to get some groceries. Surely they would still be here when we got back. But when we drove home at just past eleven, the yard was silent. You could still smell the gas from the saws in the air and the ground was littered with a confetti of wood shavings. Otherwise, what was left was a giant stump, five feet in diameter, and a huge pile of wood for my husband to chop.

It felt… surreal. Less than three hours and the old tree was gone. Cedar and I stepped up onto the trunk, which now was the perfect platform to give some future speech or poetry reading from, or play king of the mountain. The sky above was open, which is nice since our property is otherwise surrounded by tall trees and shielded from sunlight. But I also felt a stirring of sadness. Something that grew steadily and slowly for decades was erased within minutes. Responsible as our choice to cut down the tree was, the speed at which it was removed still felt like an incursion.

Now, when you sit at the window seat, the ideal spot to read and stare out the window all day, you can be seen from the street. Part of the beauty of that perch was that you used to be totally hidden from view, looking out on a mossy green oasis of trees. And we could pretty much walk around naked in our house and not worry. Granted, we still mostly can. But in the grand scope of how little has changed on this property over the course of decades, saying goodbye to that maple is no small thing.

Thankfully, we have one more big towering maple in back. The two maples were probably planted at the same time, anchoring the house, to the south and the north. Raking their leaves in the fall is always a long, time-consuming process, and yet, I love those trees, and by extension, those leaves. I love looking up into their lush canopies, seeing the squirrels jump from limb to limb, and the baby flickers emerge in the spring. The maple in back is also in its twilight years, but it’s not yet showing any signs of decay. We can enjoy it a while longer.

Every fall when I rake the leaves from the maples, I think of Frank and how much time and energy he used to put into caring for this yard. I had come a few times to help Frank rake when he was weak from cancer, and he’d shown me his method of getting every last leaf, creating little piles, lifting them into the wheelbarrow with the help of the rake, and then stacking the compost pile in a tidy square, a few feet high, and only when the leaves were moist so they would properly decay. For the next couple years, I made sure I was as thorough as Frank had been about getting all of the leaves. It felt important. I instructed Matthew about how the compost pile should be shaped. Because that’s the way Frank did it, and he must have had a good reason.

Eventually, though, I let this protocol slide. Now, I am no longer as vigilant about getting all the leaves (especially those pesky little ones from the plum and apple trees), and I let Matthew dictate the shape of the compost pile. These days, we don’t have the time to be perfectionists about anything. It feels good enough if we manage to get the bulk of the leaves raked, and just hold the basics of this place together, not let it slide into a state of neglect. 

These days, I have also not had much time to write about Els, Frank and the cabin. Motherhood has consumed me, and any writing energy I have has gone towards addressing my present. But now, for the first time in months, I feel a melancholy stirring inside, sprouting from that same seed of gratitude that infused me after Frank passed away, and as I moved in and discovered him and Els’s artifacts during the months that followed. This tug of melancholy reminds me of how this legacy is still waiting within me, dormant yet pungent, waiting for me to return to the outline of chapters and words I laid down over two years ago. It reminds me of how the roots of the story of Matthew, Cedar and I, and our present life in this cedar cabin, extend so much deeper and farther than the in-your-face immersion in parenting that we have been swimming and breathing through, day by day. It excites me to think about delving into Els and Frank’s past again, to find passages in Els’s letters about planting seedlings that today tower over us, or passages in Frank’s letters that hint at visions of countries and ports that no longer exist, at least not like they did then.

Everything changes. The old generation can barely recognize the new. Trees have their cycles. The one you plant today, you likely will not get to enjoy when it is full-grown and towering. But your children will. Or someone else’s children. Everything has its story. And everything, in the end, will die.

Now, the stump looks ugly, bare and obtrusive. But my husband reminded me that this is the worst it will look. Next spring, the fairy ring of blossoms will come up again, and we will get to choose a new tree to plant in their midst.

Love Letters

I’ve been reading letters between a husband and a wife who lived half of their marriage apart. Letters that span over four decades, letters I found over three years ago in a cardboard box in the attic of the home that I inherited (see my old post: The Gift). Right away, I read dozens in a frenzy of new discovery, then quickly grew overwhelmed with how many there were, not to mention the tiny, hard-to-read cursive script. So I ordered them by date, then grouped them by year and sealed them in plastic bags which I stacked in a big blue bin to save for later. Now, in the last couple months, I’ve returned to them, and made it through two decades so far —the 1950s and 1960s.

Els and Frank wrote to each other as often as every other day, and were apart for as much as half the year. Frank was a merchant marine and spent much of his time delivering and picking up goods from Japan, Korea, Hong Kong, the Philippines, as well as ports in South America. For several summers he also fished for salmon up in Alaska, outside of Cordova or in Bristol Bay. Els stayed at home, saving and investing the money he earned. Sometimes she worked part-time as a secretary or an interior designer, but mostly she was good at being frugal and working on their home. She vigilantly planted and weeded; she picked and de-wormed hundreds of apples to make sauce or freeze slices for pies for when her husband returned; she scrubbed and waxed the floors, washed the walls, and scoured the toilet more than I’ll ever hope to do; she sewed her own clothes, baked her own bread and hung loads of laundry up to dry. She diligently reported to her husband how much she saved on used goods or home repairs, and how much she went without so that they could save his hard-earned money for when they were together. For, after all, she once said, let us not forget that money is the reason we are apart.

Sometimes, Frank came home for only a couple months, just enough time to be properly fed and made love to by his wife, before setting off again in the company of sailors. But other times, they’d have whole winters or summers together where they would take long road trips, for up to six months. A few years in a row they drove down to Mexico, camping in the back of their white Ford station wagon at R.V. parks on bluffs overlooking the sea, staying for months within communities of expats, mostly couples or families with young kids. Frank contented himself with reading, walking, and whittling at wood. Els would go to the market and haggle for local prices on produce and meat, then cook hearty, locally-inspired meals on their camp stove like pescado veracruz or beans, tortillas, and rice. Both of them loved to read, and Els loved to write. They collected pre-Colombian artifacts and read up on local history. Many of the things in their home probably came from Mexico—old brass candlesticks, stirrups, pottery, and blankets. They also collected arrowheads, awls, and other old Indian tools at favorite spots up and down the West coast. In the early sixties they started spending whole summers on their new sailboat (a converted Bristol Bay fishing vessel which Frank put a cabin on), the Hoko. From the Canadian shores of the Inside Passage they collected artifacts—old trading beads, tools, and baskets.

Els was a thirty-some-year-old housewife in the 1950s with no children and with a husband at sea. The older she grew, and the more time she spent alone, the more “out there” to many she became. She was interested in psychology, art therapy, classical music, Chinese art and poetry, the mind, belief systems, alternatives to religion. Ever since she was a child, she’d rejected her fundamentalist Christian upbringing, and some of her letters hint at a history of mental illness, as well as emotional abuse, in her family. As she grew older, she wrote more poetry and started to paint. She grew interested in transcendental meditation and local politics, even starting her own campaign against smoking in public places. In the absence of a career, close friends, or family, she reached out to join or spearhead various causes, causes that later might have become obsessions, obsessions that existed in her mind.

Frank also loved art and literature, but was less interested in philosophy and causes. It was what it was. If he would have been interested in philosophy, he might have realized just how Zen he was—but he wasn’t. The older they grew, the more it seems he simply tolerated Els’s interests, but did little to try and share them with her. If I had not known Frank in real life and had to judge him solely on his letters, I would find him rather dull. Els wrote long, intricate letters, sometimes filled with gossip and petty remarks, but always vivid with details, dreams, frustrations, hopes, and the wanderings of her mind. Frank rarely responded to the specific things she said unless it was of a practical nature; instead he mostly just stated where he was, what port they’d be in next and for how long, how he’d look for whatever items that she’d requested (stereo equipment, straw matting, Japanese bowls), and how she should feel free to spend money or invest as she saw fit. Then he’d apologize for his lack of verbosity and thank her for her many good letters. Sometimes he might profess his love or his increasing longing for her and would speak of how she was the center of his life. But just as often his letters felt distant and cold, a few hurried scribbles in contrast to her long, diary-like accounts. If I were Els, I would have grown frustrated with his brevity. After all, they had no email and made no phone calls while he was away; all they had was this air mail correspondence. Letters took about a week to get from Seattle to the many far-flung ports. They lived years of their lives in this staggered time, one week apart in their news.

I can only read so many letters at once before I get burnt out and need to take a break. I read quickly, flying past the mundane details about people I don’t know, seeking out passages that hint at the inner fabric of their marriage—why they never had children, how they convinced themselves this was the best arrangement, how they related to their parents and siblings, how they related to each other as emotional, spiritual, and sexual beings. I also search for clues about the house—what repairs did they make or plan to make, when did they plant certain bushes or trees that are now thirty feet high, what was the neighborhood like at that time, how did they enjoy or bemoan this space that I now call my home.

I am surprised to read how from the year they moved in, Els wanted to build an addition and finish the basement. Fifty-some years at this house, and they never accomplished either. She complained of how dark, dusty, and damp the house was, how there was a lack of storage space, and how the basement was filled with mold—the same complaints we have now. In latter years, they had plenty of money from investments to spend on these improvements, but it seems they barely put a dime into the cabin besides whatever repairs they could jimmy-rig on their own. Having grown up in the Depression, they were models of thrift and resourcefulness, but it’s still hard for me to believe that they never put more into their home—which may also represent what went neglected in their marriage.

It’s understandable that the cabin was not a priority to Frank, with him at sea for half of the year, and with them both away during the summers, cruising the Inside Passage from the 60s to 80s. Frank was a wanderer at heart, and Els, at least at first, was a willing and wonderful companion. If I lived alone in this house year after year with no career, and no close friends nor family nearby, without even the Internet to keep me company, I too would surely jump at the chance to pack up and get away into nature for the summer with my only lover and best friend.

***

As a child and as an adult, I looked at Els and Frank’s lifestyle with admiration and respect. Here were two adults, older than my parents’ generation, who bucked traditional societal roles and lived simply in a small cabin or otherwise traveled and followed their heart’s content. Here were two elders I was privileged to know who modeled so many things that I value in life: a love for literature and art; thrift and a homemade do-it-yourself aesthetic; healthy organic cooking, gardening, canning, and baking; a philosophical mind that questioned the status quo and so-called reality; and most of all, a love for the outdoors, for camping, sailing, and world travel.

All of this is still true—I still admire Els and Frank for who they were and for the life they led. But now, with access to this intimate window into their life through their letters, I have another view of them and their marriage. I see a woman who was incredibly lonely, grasping for purpose, and troubled by her past. I see a man who loved his wife, but who could be distant and inaccessible, and who for whatever reasons chose to be apart from her for half of the year. True, sailing was his bread and butter, but I can’t help but think that if he wanted to, if he loved her companionship more than he loved his capacity to be away, he wouldn’t have stayed at sea for so long.

Unfortunately, I don’t have as many records from the times they were traveling together, the times when they were probably the happiest. Instead, I’ve been left with a record of their gaps and distances, of their accumulated loneliness and longing. I’ve been left with a huge box full of letters, a testimony to a union that was tested, and to a love and loyalty proven yet stretched apart.

The Gift

I live next door to the house I grew up in.

I inherited my home from my old neighbor.

Frank was a good friend. His wife, Els, died ten years earlier, and I was close to her too, growing up as a child. But after she died, I grew closer to Frank and came to know him as an adult. He was diagnosed with cancer during the last couple years of his life, but he still managed to get out and work in the yard, do many of the things he'd always done. He was fiercely independent, stoic, and private, so he never asked for help with anything. Towards the end, he seemed to have reached a certain peace with his life and upcoming death. He died over three years ago in early May.

Frank never told me he planned to leave me his house. I found out when his nephew read Frank's will out loud at a small memorial service held by the family. My breath grew heavy and my face began to tingle. I felt overwhelmed, blown away, guilty, amazed, ecstatic. I didn't know how the family felt about it, this stranger in their midst who'd been left the biggest prize of all. They all seemed to have learned the news before I had; perhaps they'd had some time to digest its shock and thus hide their emotions. I wanted to express to them how much I would honor this gift. And yet, in that moment, all I could do was sit back in a surreal state of gratitude as the others were encouraged to put yellow sticky notes with their names on the things they wanted.

Els and Frank didn't have any children. This last bit of information seems important to disclose to help explain how I was left such a huge gift from someone who was not a blood relative. I only saw Frank once every couple months or so back then. I was living in Olympia and would try to visit him whenever I was back in Seattle. Frank would make a pot of black tea and put out a plate of cookies (Grandma's oatmeal or dark chocolate Little Dutch Boys), and then we'd sit at the dining room table and talk. I'd talk about my writing or my latest travels, and he'd tell me about what books he was reading or share news from his family. Always there'd be a huge stack of books he'd gotten from Magnuson's biannual book sale; he was an avid reader, sailor, and traveler and thus fond of books about ships and the sea, about early colonial explorers, about Native Alaskan art, about South American culture. He was also a huge fan of Conrad, Hemingway, Melville, James, Austen, and others.

Books were great entryways into conversations about life, about literature, about the world. I embarrassingly admitted that I hadn't read most of the classic canon, though some day I wanted to. Once he gave me an extra copy of Pride and Prejudice to read, and try as I did, I couldn't get through it. Likewise, he called one of the books I lent him (Tim O'Brien's The Things they Carried, set during the Vietnam War) the "worst junk he'd ever read." He thought it was a completely inaccurate representation of war, and of course I couldn't argue otherwise. Frank had served during WWII, though he rarely shared his war stories with me. One day he told me that he read a book that was even worse than the one I'd lent him; someone had given him Tuesdays with Morrie, complete crap. I laughed and was relieved that I could agree with him on this one-- sentimental chicken-soup-for-the-soul life and death lessons for the masses. Not literature.

But books weren't the only thing that we connected through. There was so much about Frank and Els, their home-- a cedar cabin surrounded by tall maples and cedars--, and the way they lived that I resonated with. Frank was a merchant marine, and spent much of his life traveling around the world. Els was a poet, and loved to paint, bake, and philosophize about the meaning of the universe. Every summer the two of them would set out in their sailboat, the Hoko, and cruise up the sound into the waters of the Inside Passage off the shores of Canada. On board for months, they bathed and washed their clothes in the water; read, wrote, and cooked hearty meals on a woodstove in the cabin; visited old Indian villages, some abandoned, some still inhabited; combed the beach for shells, rocks, beads, and bottles; climbed up into old orchards and collected apples, berries, and stories from the locals that came to know this American couple who visited each summer.

They knew how to live a simple, yet decadent life, filled with earthly pleasures. They were extremely frugal, having lived through the Depression, yet their home was filled with treasures from around the world-- woven baskets, wooden chests, woolen blankets, copper pots, bowls of shells and arrowheads. As a child, I relished in the sheltered mossy enclave that was their yard; I inhaled the scent of baking bread, pies, and cookies; I spent hours on their floor arranging smooth black stones into intricate patterns before the giant fireplace. At their home, I felt enveloped in a natural goodness and beauty.

As an adult, spending more time alone with Frank, I looked to him as an example of how life could be lived. One didn't have to spend the entire year working, mired in busy-ness with no time to sit back, listen, sail, cook, and read. One didn't have to acquire a lot of things or a big house or a fancy title or big ego. And one didn't have to only live a settled life or a wandering life, either or-- there were ways to navigate a balance in between. There were ways, it was possible. Here was an elder who understood my impulses. Here was an elder who valued silence, literature, and solitude, as much as he valued people, children, and world cultures. Here was an elder who carried so much wisdom, and yet who was so humble. He knew he didn't have much time. He was a living lesson in how to not cling or hold on too tight. As far as I could tell, he had no regrets. As far as I know, he'd followed his whims and heart in life. And he'd come out okay. In fact, more sane and at peace than almost anyone I knew.

Frank left me a gift, and in moments I am still reeling. After several years of dealing with the probate, a long drawn-out process sorting through possessions and deeds and titles with the family, and a few interim periods where friends or renters stayed in the house, my husband and I finally uprooted from Olympia last summer and moved in.

Now, I live next door to the house I grew up in. I live in the magical secret garden next door, the one with the hidden raspberry patch and giant pile of composting leaves. There is so much more I want to tell you about this still unfolding process -- about the months of cleaning and going through someone else's things; about the discovery of old letters between husband and wife in the attic; the basement filled with artifacts from the sea; the flickers, raccoons, squirrels, and jays that also call this place their home; the yard filled with native plants-- ferns, salal, oregon grape, salmonberries-- and my burgeoning obsession with naming and pruning and caring for these plants that I may very well tend for a lifetime.