October, and it’s snowing

October, and it’s snowing . . .

And then it’s not.

In Minnesota, there’s a saying: If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. Or five months, or five years. (Just kidding. Unless it’s winter. Then the cold is endless, and those with the means to do so have gone to Florida or Arizona, leaving the rest of us to cope with seasonal affective disorder and plowed-in alleys).

In 1987, we planted a red maple in our front yard. In thirty-three years, the Grandparents’ Tree has grown from a sapling to a luminous bridge between seasons. From my upstairs window, I measure the progress of spring as pale leaves emerge and unfold. At the height of summer, its branches connect fully to the deep green canopy lining the boulevard. The overstory converges. I think of a neighborhood of trees tapping into the same aquifer. Of water, of course, but also of community. Is there a conversation taking place, literally, over our heads?  A thread of gossip and observation?

We tell children to hug a tree if they are lost in the woods. We name one species elder. Still, bound to our utilitarian narrative, we tell ourselves that only wackos and Druids worship them. Even as we ritualize Christmas pines, we understand them as symbolic. When the decorations are removed and they’re hauled to the curb, we curse the needles they leave behind. 

Just inside – our side, unfortunately – of our property line, is a black-sheep relative of the favored tree in the front yard, a deceptively named soft maple. We spent a small fortune last April for a pair of agile young men climb to frightening heights to remove the enormous limbs known as “widow-makers” from it. We’d remove it entirely if not for the fees of expert arborists and the skilled labor required to navigate a cherry picker up a hill and into the narrow strait between two homes. Our Scylla, the neighbors’ Charybdis. We pay the insurance premiums. And we pray.

The Grandparents’ Tree is named in honor of my father and my husband’s parents, who left this world within a few months of our move to this house. When I touch the rough bark, I feel close to them. Sheltered. When the sun comes out, I take joy in the unique color of the leaves. Their quiet warmth, not showy or bold. Today, they cradle drops of melted snow, as if to say: Wait five minutes. This too, will pass.