Every year when I was a child, and even into my
younger adult years, my family would travel to my grandparent’s house of the holidays. Depending on the year, we would be there during either Thanksgiving or during Christmas, and I believe the first recollection I really had was during Thanksgiving. It was warm that year, and I had two male cousins, one older, one younger. And right outside in grandma’s yard was Our Tree.
Our Tree was a special one. No one but us was allowed to climb into its lofty branch. No one but us was allowed to scare our parents to their last wit with our monkey-antics. And no one but us was allowed to know the secrets that were shared in Our Tree.
Holidays
came and went, and eventually I was old enough to spend part of a summer with
my grandparents. My older cousin moved
on to more weighty things than tree-climbing, but my younger cousin and I
remained faithful. I doubt there was a
single day that summer our adventures didn’t find us swinging from limb to
limb, dashing across the decks of our pirate ship, blasting into space, and fending
off the wild man-eating forest people from our tree house.
One day that
summer, my younger cousin and I found a large pile of quartz in my
grandfather’s store-room. Why it was
there we didn’t know, nor did we care to ask.
Snatching the largest of the pile, a beautifully white and clear
specimen, we dashed off to Our Tree, and climbed to the largest crook, a place
we routinely lounged and shared secrets.
Not a moment later we were being called to dinner. Safely storing the beautiful quartz in the
split of the tree, we clambered down, ran inside, and promptly forgot all about
our newly found treasure. The next day I
traveled the three hours back home, never staying another summer at my
grandparent’s house again. The piece of
my childhood weathered many storms, and many years, and I forgot all about it.
Many years
later, with my oldest cousin getting married soon (it was near Christmas time,
and he was engaged), we all became wistfully nostalgic for our younger
days. Just as we used to, we climbed the
old tree limbs of Our Tree and talked about things we had done together. We were men now; decisions had been made,
good and bad, college had been done, and rings had been bought. I’m not sure who remembered it first – he or
I – but our little treasure of quartz was remembered. Ah, the good ol’ days, where hiding a piece
of crystal was our biggest concern. The
innocence of such games we played, the naiveté of the secrets we shared. What had become of our treasure, we wondered…
Pulling
ourselves up to the precarious places that used to strongly support us as
children, we found the old V shaped limbs.
The rock the size of my hand wasn’t there. I was sad; a part of me wished that it had
somehow miraculously survived the many years of weather and wear.
At least we
could carve our initials here like we used to, my younger cousin suggested. Pulling out our knives we began to cut away
the bark and a thin layer of wood, but almost instantly our knives were
stopped. Frowning, I tapped around the
area with my knife, and cut more. Could
it be…?
Sure enough,
the large piece of quartz had been preserved in the heart of the tree, being
more and more protected each year by the thick bark and wood.
We did carve
our initials in the tree, just above where the rock could barely be seen. I visited the tree alone last year; both of
my cousins were away on a different path of life, and I had made some difficult
and foolhardy decisions of my own. The heart
of Our Tree could no longer be seen, but I knew it was there. Even today, it comforts me knowing that piece
of quartz, the innocence of my childhood, is sustained as long as the tree
still lives. In some odd way it gives me
hope: others may not know, and even my family may not see, but I know that
somewhere in this old tree, there is a Rock that will not be lost as long as I
live.
