The Maple Tree

About an hour or so north of Detroit, Michigan, there is pretty land filled with hills, lakes, firs and hardwood trees. It was here that I grew up – in a rambling farmhouse perched on one of those hills. The house had been built when Abraham Lincoln was alive, around the time he signed the “Emancipation Proclamation”.

The Farm.

Outside of the dining room door there was a deeply rooted, sprawling maple tree. It’s sturdy trunk and welcoming branches were just right to grab and climb. My sister, Sandy, showed me how to swing up into a perfect cradle that the tree seemed to have grown just for us.

It became a place of refuge when I was young. Up amongst the leaves I could be anyone, be anywhere and freely live in my imagination. I was a spy, a princess, a world-famous musician, an author and even just an ordinary girl when ensconced in those branches. Books followed me up there, and I could lay back on a three-pronged hammock of limbs and read on lazy summer days.

This beautiful maple tree has somehow come to be so associated with that time of sheer innocence in my life that it is emblematic. When I think of the sweet naiveté of those days, it is heartwarming. The tree had seasons, as do I. Just now, as September treks on, the tree will be gaining golden tips on its leaves, and the green becomes burnished. In winter, bare and reaching for meager sunlight, this faithful old tree still stands poised to burst into life when its sap begins to run again.

I am so thankful I grew up in nature, seeing, smelling, hearing it. There are sounds you don’t hear in the city. The pulse of the earth is palpable under your feet. Stars aren’t lightyears away – they seem to be within your grasp. These were days that stretched long and sweet, days I never thought would end. Perhaps they haven’t.

Oh, I have to go – it’s my watch on spy patrol. 🙂

– RG