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. 

A Lovely Couple

Pink Lady Slippers in the Wild

Paying for Air

Something heavy on my heart today.



I’m not sure if it’s the murder,


Or something dead in me.


This morning, it felt like the world was a dark, dry place.


Barren. No joy. No life.






But I looked around and saw life everywhere.


The cat sitting on my bed pillow.


The sound of my son’s feet hitting the floor


After I hollered, “Mornin’ kids. Time to get up.”


With a forced effort at sounding cheerful.






As I walked down to put my clothes in the drier,


To toss away the wrinkles,


I wished I could just climb in the drier too,


And maybe toss away whatever


Seemed to have a grip on my spirit.






It’s as if something, or someone, was pulling me down


Towards the ground,


Wanting to watch me fall.


I kept moving,


Walking past objects that were


Looking like a nice place to rest.


My bed. My favorite blue chair,


Even the hard piano stool


Looked comfortable.






On the garage, the icy air seemed to bounce


Off my skin as I piled a few split logs


Into my arms.






I tossed a couple of pieces of fatlighter


Onto the coals, watching the flames


Reach up towards the new wood.


I watched the burning


And time seemed frozen.






I chose a different route to work


After filling up my gas tank.


Instead of hopping on the interstate


I wound through the low hills,


Hoping that I could unwind


The spool inside of me


That seemed too tight.






But nothing loosened.


It’s still there-


A choking feeling,


Like I have to pay for


The air that I breathe today.

Car Show's Are Really Cool

Famous Nameless Ladies

 I’ve just picked up my third child from school and we’re driving up to the stop light on Wedowee Street, or Highway 100 as I like to call it,  when someone from the backseat utters, “Slow down, mamma!”

      “Yeah. New dresses, look! Oh, I love that one on the left!” another voice explains.

      “Which one is your favorite?” One of my children asks me.

      “I’m looking, hold on. I can’t make a snap decision about something as important as this.” Selecting just one dress from the line-up, well, it’s harder than you’d think. There are four to choose from. The one on the far left has me mesmerized; I can’t take my eyes off of it.

          The strapless white gown, with a simple waist of glittering diamondesque jewels makes me think of Cleopatra. My peripheral vision takes in the other three dresses, also white, which are stunning. But the one on the left has pulled me in, or rather pulled me out. Out of my car, into the world of beautiful columns surrounding a Grecian tile bath. I can feel warm water, poured from a decorated vase, cascading over my shoulders. I involuntarily sigh.

      “Go mamma. The light’s green.”

      “The first one. It’s so simple.” I state.

      “Yea, I like it too.” My son agrees with me.

      “I liked the one on the right best. Number four.” Says one of my daughters. She gives no reason. She doesn’t have to. I understand what happens when you merge with a dress.

      “Lilly, you still didn’t say which one you liked.”  We all sit in silence waiting for her answer.

      “I just couldn’t decide. It was between number one and four.” 

We have the mannequins numbered. Starting from the left, they are one, two, three and four. Secretly, I wish we could name these ladies: Monique, Scarlet, Virginia and Zsa Zsa. They are exotic ladies and should have ‘stage names.’ In a way, they are Bowdon’s most famous nameless ladies. But I think it’s better that way, really. Because their personalities change like the seasons. Wearing white, the one on the left couldn't be anyone but Cleopatra. However, a few weeks ago, when she wore that mermaid-style blue sequin dress, I’m sure she was Victoria. Last year, ready for Valentine’s Day, the Spanish Flamenco style red dress announced her name: Carmella Rosita Jimenez de Avila.

      Without saying anything, I circle around by the bank and turn in the narrow street beside the former diner, Jerry’s Kitchen. My kids continue to chatter about school day events-oblivious to what I’m doing.

      “Okay, Lilly. Look.”

      “Hey. You came back?” My son asks.

      “She needed more time to look at them. This is important. It’s her wedding gown we’re talking about.”

      “No it isn’t,” someone says, breaking the spell, reminding us that she's only eleven years old.

      “Well, it could be,” I respond, feeling like the only one that was hit with fairy dust.

      “It’s hard to pick just one,” she declares.

      “Well, how about picking two this time. There could be a tie.”

      “Okay. The first and the last. I love them both,” she says. And the whole car seems to sigh with relief.

      “Yeah. They are both dazzling, aren’t they?” I support her in her indecision.

          The radio is on and Katy Perry is singing about California girls having the most fun. As it fades out, the news begins. The stock market report is first these days. The announcer says something about the Dow Industrial Average doing something due to the Yen doing something… I tune it out because it’s not part of my reality right now. I have created a new one, thanks to the gowns in the window at Simple Elegance. 

          A magical cloud descends over me as I sit next to this little shop in my old, black, Chevy Prizm with a busted-out headlight.

          “The worst since The Great Crash of 29,” the news continues. It runs off me like water over a whale. I keep driving and keep dreaming. Things are gonna get better. It’s a fact, because the nameless ladies wearing the fairytale gowns told me so.  

Romeo and Juliet-Alternate Ending

What if Juliet had woken up 
While Romeo held the knife to his chest
Before it touched the fabric of his clothes...
Would he have dropped the knife
Cried tears of joy
And pulled her close to his heart?


What if Romeo started to stab himself
But just couldn't do it
And dropped the knife on the floor beside Juliet
And fell on her chest sobbing
And his tears woke her up?


What if Juliet woke up, saw Romeo 
lying on the ground, encircled in his own blood
But was able to bind the wound
And carry him to the priest
Who with herbs, and tonics, and daily cleansing of the wound
Was able to nurse Romeo
Back to health in a few weeks time


And then, they ran off to southern Italy
To stay with distant cousins
Who knew nothing of the family feud
And Where Romeo stood under the stars
In the midst of the grape orchards
And knelt on one knee 
and asked Juliet to marry him
And she said yes.


There they stayed, making a home
with many  healthy children
And had festivals, and dances
and Sunday dinners.
And watched sunsets
thanking God 
that they had been given a
small window of opportunity
and offered gratitude that they had taken
that chance
and walked through it.