Tree

I’m in love. With a tree. 

Last year, we bought a townhouse, more or less sight unseen. We were in San Diego for the winter; our VA house had sold, and we needed a place to move to when we returned to the east coast. WE finally saw a place that looked like it might fill the bill. We pored over photos on the listing and on Realtor.com, studied the various features, asked questions of our agent and our daughter about things that weren’t shown in either of those locations--where is the powder room? Are there any walk-in closets? What about storage? (You will notice that we did not ask if it had an open floor plan, stainless-steel appliances, or granite countertops--those are stupid HGTV questions that we hoot at when we watch Househunters.) We ended up buying the house on its merits: location, garage, light--but there was still a lot that we did not know. Some of that was important, some less so.

We did not know about the tree. I had assumed that, once again (for the third house in a row), I would have a bricked-in patio that needed to be enlivened with plants in pots. I expected bare and blasted, and, I must admit, the roll of bamboo fencing that (sort of) screened the HVAC compressor was pretty ugly: attached to the fence on one end and, wobbly-legged, fastened to the side of the kitchen window on the other. Wire-cutters, please.

The rest of the back ‘yard’ area held a non-functional wall fountain, attached to the side of the kitchen bay window. (Huh?) There was a tall storage cabinet (about 12” square and 5 feet high--presumably designed for pygmy gardeners) and a coffin-sized box with a slanted copper-painted-black lid. A small bricked-in area fanned out from the brick steps, with a small dirt area, semi-covered with bark mulch that held the afore-mentioned HVAC unit and the ugly quickly-removed bamboo fence. And the tree.

The tree is a red maple, I think. In May, the leaves were green, but they were small and fine and delicate-looking. It shaded the patio; it stretched up to the second floor bedroom, giving that room the aura of a treehouse. From the kitchen window, I saw branches and leaves reaching across the blue sky, and from my chair at breakfast, I could watch squirrels chase each other up and down its trunk. I liked this tree from the start.

Love came in the fall. My tree saved the finest for last. Her leaves turned magnificently red, with gorgeous orange highlights. She lights up the patio, and leans over the fence so that passers-by will see her and remark upon her colors. In the morning--even on dull mornings where clouds drag the sky down to the ground--she offers a bright note to start the day. I find my eyes drawn to the window,, to the sunlight filtering through that rosy confusion., and think: all they had to show me was this tree. I could paint the walls, the trim, the cabinets; I could get someone to fix what’s broken, and alter the things that are inconvenient. But...getting a tree like this takes years of patience, years of care, years of love. This one puts Joyce Kilmer to shame.