The Trees My Mother Planted

When I was 20, I came home from college only to find my mom on her hands and knees in the front yard covered in dirt. Oh God, her she goes on her 'dealing with death' therapy, I thought. The land was yellow dry and my grandmother had just died. I felt sorry for my mother and imagined the death of my own mother would devastate me far beyond repair. The seedlings were pathetic. Long bare twigs at best.

Great, you're planting sticks in our yard, I said.

She did not say a word and just kept breaking about the roots and setting them in the ground. I watched her work rhythmically. Shovel to break the hard ground, water soaking the soil to mud, taking the seedlings out of their pot holders, placing them in the ground, cupping and wiping the soil back into its original place, and again watering them.

I secretly envied my mother, because she was patient and loving to plants. When I was a kid we would go into the Sequoia National Forest and I would hold her hand as she named all the trees and flowers by their genus and species. An unsung botanist and forestry pioneer. These things of being silent amongst trees and flowers was the only time I ever truly saw my mom at peace. I, on the other hand, could not keep a plant alive if my life depended on it. Too much water, too much sunlight, not enough water, not enough sunlight. No matter what green thing I had in my house, it died.

Annette, someday these will be bigger than the house. They will shade during the summer, break the cold winds of winter. Birds will sing in them, she said without even looking up at me.

I stood there. I imagined our house healing from death and resurrecting back to life. I put my bags on the floor and in my nice clothes, I got down on hands and knees and started planting those pathetic sticks with her.

I moved away from the house I grew up in. So did my mom.

I went home about a month ago and made that long drive from our new residency on the coast to the valley to meet up with Ginger. The sweltering heat and smog of the San Joaquin Valley is anything but inviting especially when you have options like San Francisco and Big Sur at arms length. Yet, I felt the need to return to the roots that have shaped the woman I am today.

Can we pass by my old house, I asked.

Sure man, my best friend said and passed the joint.

We drove up and I could hardly believe my eyes. Those sticks had proved me an egotistical bitch and for a moment, I almost stopped breathing. They had grown into magnificent creatures. Oaks and cypress and apples and olive trees as tall as buildings. They stood majestic like green gods. The sun was setting and the house I grew up in was swelling with life again. I was humbled as my eyes filled with water. I smiled and got out of the car. The lady my mom rents the house to now was outside watering the trees and her cactus. She had added her own Mexican touches and I was grateful to this woman for the upkeep of what my mother started more than a decade ago. I told her who I was and how I had once grown up in the house. I asked her if I could have a look around. She agreed with a genuine smile. I had no desire to enter the house, I knew our kitchen table had long disappeared and the living room would be filled with her things. I only wanted to see the land. All of my most cherished memories were of the grass I laid in, the willow and walnut tree me and my brothers climbed, and that Hawaiian sized palm tree that still sits unchallenged to the left of the house.

I went into the back yard and 11 little toy sized dogs came prancing out like a circus line of horses. I laid in the hammock the lady had tied to the willow trees for nearly an hour. In silence, I rocked into the darkness of a fresh night.

It was one of the most meaningful and eventful moments of my life. I had learned another lesson from my greatest teacher. Learning that planting today may bring some astounding things around tomorrow.

Thank you mom, for planting those trees.