The Standing People, as the Native Americans referred to trees, are a special group among my circle of friends. It may have started when I met the old Cottonwood tree my mother knew down the road from where she grew up. And there have been other specific individuals I would go visit over the years, both with and without names. Then when my family and I moved into our first and last house, I was glad to discover a relative of my mother's Cottonwood tree only a few blocks from our house.
Kulijah was old and gnarled when I first met him 30 years ago. The cracks in his bark were a good three inches deep and I would not have been able to reach my arms around more than a third of the way around his girth if I had tried…so he had seen many winters. When I would walk my dog past Kulijah we would always stop so I could say hello and pat his bark. And I would wait until the cars passed by on the road so I could hear the pleasant rustling of his leaves whispering in my ears.
As I watched his aging through the seasons in symphony with my own, I was always glad to see his fresh new leaves in the Spring…to see that we were still there together for another year. But lately I had grown concerned when some of his limbs failed to produce new leaves and someone would cut those limbs off. And there were other leaf-less limbs whose gaunt arms reached to no avail. I figured it was probably borers that had weakened him. But still--his inner core was alive and well, as was my own with my similar losses.
But today I discovered that a greater threat has finally gotten my friend. The darkly hooded Improvements and Progress has come with its scythe and slammed him down, has ignominiously thrown him on his face, and has left his roots now reaching obscenely for the sky. Passing by in the midst of yellow Caterpillers, mud, scattered storm drain conduits, and the slow/stop sign-wielders I have had to make do with no ceremony.
So…Kulijah my friend, I will miss you and whenever I see Cottonwood trees standing in their magnificence and when I hear the Cottonwood song, I will think of you. And I can only hope that, when I am gone, the breeze moving through the leaves of the silent places will whisper my name and that the shadow of a lone man walking will be seen to pass among the dappled sunlight in the hidden groves.
