I do have friends who are NOT trees, and I measure them with hugs. I have a special tape, though, that I wrap around my TREE FRIENDS each fall.
Please come meet my tape-measured friends.
- Miss Maple—a sweet old lady.
- Hemlock Holmes—a sturdy guy—there when you need him.
- Cherry BB—straight and true and beautiful!
- Parker Pyne—kin to Miss Maple and both propagated by Agatha Christie.
- Arthur Ash—He’s dead now—or mostly so. Actually, Tennis Ashe and Tree Ash both “died” in 1993, but Friend Ash persevered. See those few leaves? Must be a lesson there somewhere.
I started measuring my friends in 1964. The Pyne girth measured 27 inches then; now is up to 83½. Diameter growth went from 9 to 28 inch.
Trees grow. Or they die—either a natural death (see Arthur) or “harvesting,” as in logging. Yes, I miss my old friends, but checks in the mail sort of make up for their loss.
Going back to the beginning, we bought 280 acres of Vermont woodland in 1963. Early on, we worked
hard at making space for nice, straight trees to grow tall and fat. We also pruned branches from young pines to grow knot-free lumber. Our kids also grew in the process, turning into two strong oaks and a beautiful birch tree. We read the Bible and Paul Bunyan around the campfire, fought mice, made friends with milk snakes (they eat mice), watched bats and deer and weasels and skunks and porcupines, processed hundreds of tons of firewood, and made maple syrup.
Tree farmers do keep strange company, but I’m tight with the Creator of trees, who planted the sky with stars and galaxies, and who keeps company with angels, archangels, cherubim and seraphim. He also peopled our little Earth with owls, ravens, moose, and bobcats, and adorned the landscape with daisies, asters, and orchids.
And friends—of all kinds. I live in the company of trees and believers, my eyes fixed on that glorious Kingdom above.
I lift my eyes; the cloud grows thin;
I see the blue above it;
And day by day this pathway smooths,
Since first I learned to love it,
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
A fountain ever springing;
All things are mine since I am his—
How can I keep from singing?
Please join me in singing praise to the Maker of Trees. And talk to me—either below or via firstname.lastname@example.org
As I finished this blog, my sister Arline sent a post on trees of interest. You might enjoy looking at them. https://www.boredpanda.com/a-place-of-enchantment/