JOY ALONG THE WAY: IN MEMORIES, TREE FRIENDS AS LOVELY AS POEMS

I suppose everyone has a special tree he or she remembers. Maybe two or three. God forbid, could there be one person in these United States who has never seen a tree? Only pavement and brick walls?

My first favorite tree friend was the black walnut tree in our front yard at the farm. On the lower limb, which wasn't very low, Dad attached a long rope to make a swing. After tying the two ends of the rope over the limb, about twenty inches apart, he found a suitable sized plank to place in the loop and there was my first physical fitness apparatus.

In addition to the delightful swinging, the tree furnished huge walnuts, the kernels of which made their way into cookies and into Grandma's famous five layer Old Kentucky Nut Cake.

Next in my memory came the Bing cherry tree in that same yard, only in the back yard. I didn't question its existence then when I climbed all over the many strong branches and ate my fill of those sweet black cherries. But I do wonder now how that particular species of cherry trees came to flourish in our back yard. We had other red cherry trees as did our neighbors, but so far as I knew it was the only Bing cherry tree in the world. I didn't know it was called a Bing cherry tree then. The low-branched, sprawling tree was huge. How come, I wonder now. Did some previous owner carry out an experiment? If so, he or she did everything right. That tree is gone now, as well as the black walnut, Alas, time's toll.

Simultaneous with my second favorite was my third, a big sycamore, although we always called it the bee tree after it was felled. It meant more to me dead than alive. I scarcely remember it when it was alive, but I remember the supper table conversation about it. "Bees have a hive in it in that decaying place at the top," Dad said. I had no idea what a honey hive was but was soon to find out. One day, coming home form school, that old giant tree was lying on the ground but angled up about twenty degrees, just right to run up and down. Mama was there to meet though and to warn me to stay away from it for a while until Dad could get the honey out. Honey? Did sycamore trees make honey like the cherry tree made cherries?

A few weeks later, Mama poured some amber-colored molasses-looking stuff over my hot buttered biscuits. Oh my! What was this stuff? My first experience with wild honey.

Upon coming to Cape Girardeau to live, there was a First of March Ritual to climb the stairs to the attic, look out the west window to see if a weeping willow tree on the far ridge was turning green. There were few houses in Rodney Vista then to block my view. And the willow on that date was always turning green while the other trees around still had their winter coats on. Not only was it turning green but dipping and swaying, lifting long graceful arms into the air as if performing in some stage show, showing off spring fashion lines and drapability of material. It is gone.

Then there was the Westlane elm, owned by neighbor Aven Kinder when I first cast my eyes upon it, then by Laura Keller when it made its demise. I believe it was the largest tree in town.

There was the towering evergreen in Rigdon's yard on Broadway. It is gone. The red sassafras on North Cape Rock Drive. It is gone. My lightning-struck, wild cherry tree. It is gone.

What's with these trees? Why can't we have some trees with a life expectancy of cedars of Lebennon or Mount Olive olives?

There is still my sycamore in the park and the Post oak and my storm-tattered saw-toothed oak at my back walk. It is my favorite now, maybe because of proximity, maybe because it is the playground for the squirrels and the stage for the singing birds, making it a tree lovely as a poem.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.