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Read by Matilda Longbottom
We moved north where the colder climate must have been jarring to the constitution of my young parents who grew up in the sunny climate of the sweltering South where Spring comes early, and Summers are long, humid, and heavy. But that is what parents do. Dad followed a career lead to provide for the family and grow their dreams as well.
We landed in a mountain town in Tennessee where he became their first parks and recreation director. We moved to a delightful neighborhood called Forest Hills. Unfortunately, there was not a hill or a forest on our lot. There was a forest across the street, but we bordered the cow pasture and our yard looked more like that—flat with only a pine or two. The little neighborhood boys would knock on our door. I flattered myself to think they came to play with me because I was a good softball player. However, I think they just came to use the nice flat yard with no trees! Dad soon began to remedy that as he started planting trees. I was the assistant as we planted lots of dogwoods, a white birch, and a pretty pin oak. Chink, chink, I would hear as he shoveled each hole. Then, I would lug the bucket of water over. Water the hole. Spread the roots. Cover the roots with loose dirt and then, stomp, stomp to tap out the air pockets. Over and over, we would do the routine for each special tree. Dad appreciated all kinds of trees, flowers… and people. “Take care of them,” he would say, “and they will blossom.” I watched, listened, and learned.
Then came the career move to create an expansive regional park system in Northern Virginia. And again, the new family home was on a lot that was flat and leafless. The builder stuck a silver maple in the front yard and was done. Dad ingeniously planted a beach umbrella in the backyard to provide some sparse shade. Once again, tree planting soon began. I was 11 by then but still had my job as the water carrier. The same routine occurred that began with the big hole and ended with the stomp, stomp. He planted holly trees, crabapples, cherries, a short-lived weeping willow, a long-lived hemlock (still with us), a deodar cedar, and lots of dogwoods. He would walk me by the deodar cedar and tell me, “Touch the needles. They are so soft. It is a tough evergreen without the sharp needles.” Soft and gentle, and still magnificently strong, I thought. I continued to learn.
I moved into my career. It was the 20th anniversary of Earth Day. I volunteered my shop to host a celebration that was highlighted by the planting of a cherry tree. Some town leaders and business leaders were in attendance. The tree was surrounded by shiny shoes, casual work shoes, and a sandal or two as everyone gazed on while “Smokey the Bear” and I planted the tree. I provided the jug of water and then, Smokey and I stomped the dirt. Smokey leaned over and whispered, “You are the only one not to be afraid to get your shoes dirty and know to stomp the dirt.” I smiled. I knew the routine.
On my 50th birthday, I planned a tree-planting party. We planted a variety of trees and invited a diversity of friends and family. Dad helped plant a beautiful deodar cedar that was about 4 feet tall. At 5 feet, it became the delicious delicacy of the sawfly larvae, and I would spend the next five seasons plucking them off as they tried to strip my tree. Then, suddenly, they were gone. It had survived, and beautifully. “Take care of them and they will blossom,” I remembered.
Now, 17 years later, the deodar cedar towers magnificently, dancing lightly in the breeze, silvery green star bursts of soft needles on each branch, and with that characteristic trait of the tip of the tree flopping over like a showgirl with a tall feathery plume on her head.
My dad would become less mobile in his late 80s and the physical therapist gave him exercises. I would practice with him as he drew up his knee in his chair and “planted the tree and stomped the dirt.” “What kind of tree are we planting today?” I would ask. He smiled, “dogwood.”
My dad left this world a better place earlier this year. My painter noticed the deodar cedar this Summer. I told him about the strong, resilient tree with the soft and gentle branches and suggested that he plant one with his little girl…now. He said he might. I think he will. ❖
About the Author: Dawn Winslow-Chadwick is a passionate gardener and storyteller who loves to weave together tales of nature and life lessons. Raised by parents who valued the beauty of trees and the importance of nurturing both plants and people, Dawn brings a heartfelt touch to her writing. She currently resides in Virginia, where she continues to plant trees, celebrate Earth Day, and inspire others to connect with nature.
