February 7, 2005
Greetings from someone looking up,
In our back yard we have several trees including a Bradford
Pear. Any fool can tell it’s a Bradford
Pear tree, and if any fool could not, then he could ask his wife and she will
tell. I would not have named this
particular tree a pear tree because there have never been pears on it. It might better be called a Bradford
Pear-less tree. If it were named for
fruit it does not have it might as well be called a Bradford Watermelon
tree. But this is not my point.
I admire this tree for its foolish optimism. It is recklessly hopeful, unreasonably
so. It is the type of tree one would be
embarrassed to be around because it is so naïve, so expectant, so willing to believe. For all I know this tree thinks it can grow
pears. Or watermelons. When fall comes, it eventually changes the
color of its leaves, but it will not let them go. Because long after the other trees have
resigned themselves to winter’s grip, this pear tree holds on to the thought
that summer might come back, there might be a sunny spell around the corner,
and you don’t want to be leaf-less when that happens.
It is a sad day when the Bradford Pear finally gives up its
leaves. The ground is white with snow, a
thick winter blanket covering the litter left by less optimistic trees. Around the pear tree is a brown apron of
leaves; tiny wet soggy flags of surrender.
The pear tree then assumes the grim naked stance of its
deciduous brothers and sisters in the yard.
Clacking their limbs in the wind to stay warm, these trees stand stoic
in their austere station. They are
pretending not to be jealous of the pine trees that are wrapped in a plush coat
of green needles, bundled against the winter cold. They are jealous though. They are green with envy. They want the winter to be over so they can
pull on their spring foliage, pin on the flowers, the berries, the little
whirlybird accessories that will make them beautiful again.
I want winter to be over too, and yet I know that warm
weather is not close at hand. I know
there will be other arctic blasts, more snow to shovel, more weeks of bundling
the kids in layers to brave the conditions. I know that the sun will be a dim
gray semblance of its summer self for months to come.
To add to this frosty slap of reality, Punxsutawney Phil, that
Pennsylvania rodent-prognosticator, in a fit of insecurity has predicted six
more weeks of winter, which he does 87% of the time. Phil is not an optimist; he lives underground,
if that tells you anything about him.
The Bradford Pear does not care what the groundhog has to
say. It does not acknowledge the
Farmer’s Almanac. It has stood in frozen
earth long enough. It summons every bit
of courage it has in its chlorophyll starved frame, reaches deep into its roots
and pushes out, its bark is shivering with effort.
This weekend I looked into the yard and saw that the pear
tree was sprouting little white buds on the ends of its branches. Tiny little buds, brave pioneer sprouts,
ignoring peer pressure from the maples, the Bradford Pear defies nature, dares
winter to stay. It calls out for spring
to come, to free us from the damp cold days, to banish the puddles deep into
the woods where more cowardly trees live.
People tend to see the signs they want to see. Some gather in frozen knots around a clownish
rodent, imposter that he is, and wait to be told more grim news. This morning I stood at the window, and found
myself cheering for this heroic effort in my back yard. Foolishly optimistic or not, this is the
direction I choose.
Hope this finds you budding,
David
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