Our Tree

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.