(Mother's Day 2006)
"One is wise to cultivate the tree that bears fruit in our soul."
-Henry David Thoreau
Throughout history and literature, trees have both stood and fallen as symbols; George Washington and the cherry tree, the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in the Garden of Eden, and, of course, the Christmas tree. But, to my mom, those trees have nothing over the magnolia tree in the front yard of the house my family lived in at 96 Oak Street, Stoneham MA.
In the northeast, magnolia trees don’t stay in bloom long - usually from late April through early to mid-May. Like a roman candle, it bursts to life in spectacular fashion. All too soon, though, it sheds its petals, and goes back to being a regular old tree until the next spring.
I remember once hearing my dad proclaim that the magnolia tree should be cut down. To which, my mom protested vehemently. She stated that the tree reminded her of when my sister and I were born. It may be an exaggeration to say that mom would have chained herself to that tree to prevent its destruction, but she was serious about its preservation.
My sister was born on May 3, 1963, and I came along almost two years later, on April 30, 1965. The magnolia was announcing spring’s glorious presence, in grand fashion, as we were brought home from the hospital.
I’ve experienced few things in nature as vibrant and fragrant as magnolia blossoms in full bloom. When the tree sheds its dense petals, however, they soon turn mushy on the ground, their texture not unlike that of overcooked pasta. If the leaves aren’t raked up and disposed of in short order, things can get mighty slippery under foot.
I recently asked my dad if he ever really wanted to get rid of the magnolia tree or was he just teasing my mom. "Yes, it made a mess," was his reply. That tree was preventing my dad from obtaining the thick, well-cared-for lawn he always desired. The magnolia blocked out enough sunlight to produce a bare sphere on our lawn that defined the arc of the sun’s daily journey; no grass was going to grow there.
Once, my dad hired a landscaper to remove the crabapple tree that occupied a spot across the yard from the magnolia. When the topic of the magnolia came up, my mom was there again to protect it. She may be the least confrontational person I know, but she meant business when it came to that tree. The foreman of the landscaping crew sensed this immediately and excused himself from the discussion.
My dad’s sense of order was clashing with my mom’s sentimentality. Both instincts are strong, I know, because the two are often in conflict within me. There had to be a compromise. My dad couldn’t win this one. He knew better than to mess with a mother’s maternal nature. I guess that, after forty seven years of marriage, you learn which battles you’ll win, and which ones you’ll lose.
My mom is a deeply rooted person. When my parents sold their house in 2003 she had been dreading the move for some time. Last Sunday, my sister and I celebrated our 43rd and 41st birthdays, respectively. We observe the days together as it’s easier to get the family together once, rather than twice, in a three day span. We celebrated in my parents half of my older brother’s house, where my mom has adjusted nicely to her new surroundings.
Earlier that day, on my way to go food shopping, I drove by the old house on Oak Street. I was a little shocked at how impressive the magnolia tree looked. A dominating feature in the neighborhood, it was in full bloom, and looked much larger than I remembered. Its velvety purple-pink and white leaves were stunning in the spring sunshine.
As I drove on, I was thinking that it’s a shame that a tree does not possess a conscience. It would be nice if the magnolia could know what I know - that we have been fortunate to have my mom around, providing wisdom and keeping us upright.
