Monday Moanin’
By David Smith
February 7, 2005
Greetings from someone looking up,
In our back yard we have several trees including a Bradford Pear. Any fool can tell it’s a Bradford Pear tree, and if any fool could not, then he could ask his wife and she will tell. I would not have named this particular tree a pear tree because there have never been pears on it. It might better be called a Bradford Pear-less tree. If it were named for fruit it does not have it might as well be called a Bradford Watermelon tree. But this is not my point.
I admire this tree for it’s foolish optimism. It is recklessly hopeful, unreasonably so. It is the type of tree one would be embarrassed to be around because it is so naïve, so expectant, so willing to believe. For all I know this tree thinks it can grow pears. Or watermelons. When fall comes, it eventually changes the color of its leaves, but it will not let them go. Because long after the other trees have resigned themselves to winter’s grip, this pear tree holds on to the thought that summer might come back, there might be a sunny spell around the corner, and you don’t want to be leaf-less when that happens.
It is a sad day when the Bradford Pear finally gives up its leaves. The ground is white with snow, a thick winter blanket covering the litter left by less optimistic trees. Around the pear tree is a brown apron of leaves; tiny wet soggy flags of surrender. The pear tree then assumes the grim naked stance of its deciduous brothers and sisters in the yard. Clacking their limbs in the wind to stay warm, these trees stand stoic in their austere station. They are pretending not to be jealous of the pine trees that are wrapped in a plush coat of green needles, bundled against the winter cold. They are jealous though. They are green with envy.
They want the winter to be over so they can pull on their spring foliage, pin on the flowers, the berries, the little whirlybird accessories that will make them beautiful again. I want winter to be over too, and yet I know that warm weather is not close at hand. I know there will be other arctic blasts, more snow to shovel, more weeks of bundling the kids in layers to brave the conditions. I know that the sun will be a dim gray semblance of its summer self for months to come.
To add to this frosty slap of reality, Punxsutawney Phil, that Pennsylvania rodent-prognosticator, in a fit of insecurity has predicted six more weeks of winter, which he does 87% of the time. Phil is not an optimist; he lives underground, if that tells you anything about him.
The Bradford Pear does not care what the groundhog has to say. It does not acknowledge the Farmer’s Almanac. It has stood in frozen earth long enough. It summons every bit of courage it has in its chlorophyll starved frame, reaches deep into its roots and pushes out, its bark is shivering with effort.
This weekend I looked into the yard and saw that the pear tree was sprouting little white buds on the ends of its branches. Tiny little buds, brave pioneer sprouts, ignoring peer pressure from the maples, the Bradford Pear defies nature, dares winter to stay. It calls out for spring to come, to free us from the damp cold days, to banish the puddles deep into the woods where more cowardly trees live.
People tend to see the signs they want to see. Some gather in frozen knots around a clownish rodent, imposter that he is, and wait to be told more grim news. This morning I stood at the window, and found myself cheering for this heroic effort in my back yard.
Foolishly optimistic or not, this is the direction I choose.
Hope this finds you budding,
David
Copyright © 2005 David Smith