Trimming the Tulip Tree

Kathy T. Camp 

      I’m not a gardener. But I admire them. Growing things just makes sense. It’s not just about the economics, though. Putting tiny flakes of organic matter in the ground, covering them with wet dirt, and watching little white arms reach out towards me puts things in perspective.

      I didn’t ever plan to garden. It started as another project. A good friend, the kind that tells you what you don’t want to hear, said I seemed to be seething with anger most of the time. “Try weeding your flower bed,” she suggested. “But I don’t have a flower bed.” I responded. That wasn’t a good answer. I knew the answer before she said it, “Well, plant one.”

A few weeks earlier I had a cart full of toilet paper, graham crackers and a bouncy ball when I caught a glimpse of seeds for sale.  “Come on kids, we’re going to the dollar store!” I was delighted to see the rack sporting a card, “10 for $1.00” I almost cheered. “Kid’s help me pick out some flowers!” My two year old son grabbed some sunflowers and carrot seeds. My girls handed me varieties of flowers I couldn’t pronounce. I didn’t bother reading the backs of the little envelopes, I just plopped them in the buggy, grabbed a nozzle for the hose, a watering can and headed to the check out.

My kids stood beside me as I began slinging the hoe. One of them asked, “Mamma, why are you chopping up our grass?”

“I’m chopping up dirt so we can plant the flowers.” Each child had their own area of the yard, and I had mine. We planted all four of them. I waited. Not for the seedlings, but for the weeds.

I planted the flower garden. I waited. Not for the seedlings, but for the weeds. I couldn’t wait to pull them. I was confident that my seething anger would just disappear when I yanked out the weeds. I was told to pretend that I was yanking out the hairs of someone’s head. “Imagine it’s his head, or whomever you are angry at. And pull ‘em out by the roots. You’ll feel better.”

Then it happened. The moment I’d been waiting for. I was really angry. Angry at my life. Nothing specific, just feeling like I’d been dealt a bad hand. So, I marched out to the flower garden and started yanking. While I did, my kids ran around the yard, spraying each other with water, riding their bicycles, digging up worms, laughing. I found myself laughing, too. Day after day I weeded the garden, certain that my new anger management was going to help me deal more kindly to the person who was making me so angry. By the end of the summer, I wasn’t feeling angry much anymore, but I don’t think it was pulling weeds that changed me. I think simply deciding to channel my thoughts in a new direction, created something. My anger was the weed, like kudzu, and had nearly choked out  my joy in life.

I came to appreciate the hard work the previous owners had put into the yard. The blueberry bushes, the daffodils, the azaleas, dogwoods and my favorite, the tulip tree. The following spring, as I sat outside admiring the buds on all my trees, I asked my children to pick up some sticks in place them in the kindling box. “It’s gonna be chilly tonight, I’ll build a fire with them.”

A few minutes later my daughter knocked on the door. “Zebbie’s getting you a lot of kindling mamma. He’s chopping down the tulip tree.”

“What? The tulip tree?”

“Yea mamma. It’s dead.”

I ran to see this event. Certain she was mistaken. Nope. There he stood, slinging his little hatchet. The 6 inch branch was nearly severed. “Mamma, I can’t get it, it’s really hard.”

I breathed in and out, counted to ten, then twenty, before answering.

“Honey, this tree isn’t dead. It’s alive and green. See the inside?”

I pointed to the splintered branch dangling like a loose tooth.

“But there are no leaves on this tree?” he looked confused.

I pointed out the buds and explained that it was not quite awake yet. “In a week or so there will be beautiful blooms on this tree. It’s my favorite tree in the yard.”

“I know mamma. That’s why I picked this one, cause you love it so much.”

That was three years ago. Last week, when we had that first day of 70 degree heat after what seemed an endless winter of Antarctica’s jet stream, I walked around my yard, checking the plants.

I noticed that the tulip tree has put out many new small branches where it was pruned. One bunch on each side of the tree. The branches have buds.

I also realized that I haven’t had a flower garden in two years. It’s Friday night, and I’m headed to HomeDepot for some bags of topsoil. I’m remembering my hands digging in the dirt that first summer I planted flowers. I loved the feel of the cool dirt, the smell of the musty ground and the sun on my back.

      I know what I’m going to do Sunday afternoon. We’re going to the Dollar Store for the seed special. I guess I am a gardner.