If Trees Could Talk

My father was a city dweller who moved to the country to become a farmer. The 180-acre land he purchased was eroded from years of grazing cattle and sheep. He wanted to give back to the land because it was in such poor shape. To reclaim it, he planted trees - alternating rows of pines and hardwoods so they could protect each other. "If I plant trees," he used to say, "then I don't need fences."

As these trees grew, he carefully weeded out falling branches and weak trees so the strong could prevail. He meticulously manicured the wild grape vines that liked to circle around and choke the trees. My four children enjoyed playing in the rows of trees, each path identical to another. These long corridors were their youthful sanctuary, their quiet resting place, their solitary camp.

In time, my father had grown a fantastic young forest - so much so that his land was designated an official tree farm. Most of those very trees he planted still shade that farm today, years after he passed away.