See the previous classes' tree stories here.
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A place for Writing 12 students to read each other's writing, to critique, to suggest, to improve.
About Me
- Brad
- Former adult teacher who loves island beaches. Happy homebody and family man; once devoted dog owner, now without Tashi, my Tibetan Terrier. I prefer the absurdity of the imagination to the absurdity of imagining nothing.
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The Maple Tree
The maple leaf is Canada's beautiful emblem as seen on our flag. The very thought of the maple tree conjures up many warm colorful thoughts; The leaves turn to wonderful Fall colors, as they say goodbye to summer. Winter into Spring allows the sap to run giving us the world renown Canadian Maple Syrup. The wood from these trees lends itself to very unique furniture, with a design and beauty of its own; warm,comfortable cosy look.
One more look at trees, in a romantic poetic vane; They seem to reach for the sky with great beauty and strengh and yet in most part bend and sway with the wind. They are a sign of time and endurance.They provide us with clean air and oxygen. They provide shelter and food for wild life.They provide fodder for poets and romantics. "I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree. A tree that looks to God all day, and spreads it's leafy limbs to pray." That just about says it all.
My trip to Italy 1983
Here we go down memory lane.The place YVR.Four excited ladies; three sisters,Barbara, Kay, Dola, plus my sister Barb's business partner,Martha. Their relationship with the fashion industy made this trip feasible.
First stop Amsterdam, then on to Milan with Air I'talia. Our goal was to be in Milan for Modeste season when the designers bring their Fall line to display at fashion shows and exclusive shops.
We booked into the Carlton Sonata hotel, handed over our passports on demand to the desk clerk. Rested a few hours,then were on our way to see the sights of Milan. Exiting the lobby we were struck with a magnificent view of a majestic Cathedral and Plaza. Canopied heated sidewalks in the exclusive boutique area. by no means is this the norm, like fashion shows do not show the norm, they show a rather exaggerated expression of the actual garment.
Now for a view of the very colorful locals. They are O'so civilized. Three old gentleman sitting outside at a round picnic table,eating ice-cream cones, discussing world affairs. A beautiful middle aged women with sun tanned legs, thick greying curly hair, scarf billowing in the breeze. She waves to the gentleman as she proudly bikes pass them. At the same time, I spy a waiter dressed very sophisticated crossing a 4 lane main thoroughfare carrying a large tray high over his head laden with fresh pastery and coffee, heading to a local business on the opposite side of the street,all traffic slows down to accomidate the travelling waiter. What a civilized scene . No joggers, sweating in public would not be good manners, neither would be jogging attire. Gentlemen dress and strut like proud peacocks, overcoats or jackets casually slung over their shoulders, white shirts,ties,shoes well kept. The men always have a eye for the ladies...
Onto Florence home of the statue of David,and many other wonderful pieces of artwork, I personally loved the bridges, One in particular "Ponto Del Vichio", with kiosks on either side of the bridge deck, sales of jewellery and souvenirs.
Next stop Venice, Barb and Martha remained in Florence,Dola and I proceeded by train to Venice,This leg of the trip could have been better. Dola was married to a very well off business man, She got it into her head that she could be kidnapped, well! that did not make for a very good sightseeing trip. Upon our arrival when exiting the train station and looking out over a canal, it was like a postcard coming to life. We stayed in the oldest hotel in Venice, I didn't say the greatest, very small rooms, fabic covered walls, very small lobby.The hotel was directly located on the canal very close to "The Bridge of Sighs". A finely arched bridge joining a courthouse building to the execution building, Thus explaining the given name .
-My giving tree.
“Ok. One down and one more to go, guys, ching . . .”As I watched the chainsaw going through my tree, I cried, and I felt pain as if it happened to me yesterday.
It was a fine day; when my dad bought a grape vine plant and decided to plant it in front yard. It was so cute to look at the little grape vine plant; I decided to name the little one “cutie” after my doll’s name.
As the time had passed, the plant grew and grew to branch over and bear some of delicious grapes. I used to sit under the tree and eat those grapes. Sometimes, I used to play hide and seek with my friends. And I was always the winner and it seemed my cutie was also the winner.
We were inseparable. At times, I used to break the branches to make the wooden tiara. My cutie wouldn’t say anything; it was like the book, “giving tree” because my cutie gave everything and wouldn’t say anything.
Until one day, my cutie became strange, withered some of the leaves, and later became sick. My heart cried and so did all of my friends.
My tree died later that year and my dad ordered someone to cut the tree down. I cried and whined not to cut my cutie down. It was so horrible to watch piece by piece; it was as if my arms and legs torn apart. I cried and cried for several days whenever I passed where cutie stood. From that day on, I promised myself I wouldn’t love any tree, but my grape vine, cutie forever and ever.
I woke up earlier than usual, seven o’clock in the morning, and was glad to witness the rising sun. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, wore my sweat suit and runner-shoes, and set off for a run.
The early mist and sunshine were refreshing, a mixture of warmth and coolness. Everything around me was illuminated,—the trees, the houses and their lawns, the street, —almost golden.
After about thirty minutes of jogging I saw a creek. I sauntered along it until I reached a small breakfast diner. I decided to eat there and recuperate.
I sat beside a vending machine, facing the large, glass window, looking over the street.
An amiable, middle-aged woman came walking towards me, fishing a small notebook and pen from a pocket on her apron. She asked for my order—dark coffee, no sugar, egg-and-bacon sandwich, orange juice, went behind the counter, used a calculator, and entered into the kitchen. There were only two persons working there: the hostess and the male cook who was about the same age as her. Her husband, I thought.
I gazed around me as I waited for my food. A group of old men seated at the table beside the window caught my attention. All three of them were reading newspapers. I noticed that I hadn’t seen, nor heard any of them speak. They were too absorbed with what they were reading, hardly touching the coffee mugs on their table. It seemed that they had already forgotten about their companions, that they had nothing of any interest to talk about. Or, perhaps, for them, old age had already made speaking a laborious task.
My breakfast arrived.
As I drank my coffee, I noticed that one them, the one seated closest to the window, had already folded his newspaper and had placed it on the table. He sipped from his mug, leisurely, and turned his face towards the street. I followed his gaze and thought that he was looking at an Oak Tree.
The tree was big; it had a huge trunk and branches; its thick and lusciously green leaves shaded a good five meters of the street; its roots, strong and alive, had already destroyed the concrete pavement, exposing the wet, loam soil.
To be honest, I am far from being a tree expert. I wasn’t even sure if it really was an Oak Tree. My untrained eyes indicated to me that the tree’s dark and rough surface were signs of old age; the dryness and fragility of its skin reminded me of my almost centennial-old grandmother.
I wondered if the old man with gray eyes, deep and baggy socket, wrinkled skin, and balding head, and I were thinking of the same thing, or asking the same question: what if I could live like an Oak tree?
A few months ago, I had read a book called Unless and in that book, the writer Carol Shields said that an Oak tree takes three hundred years to grow, three hundred more years to live, and another three hundred years to wither. You can do the math.
“What if my life span is as long as this oak?” I imagined the old man asking himself. “And aside from having around nine hundred years to live, it would be more practical to have stages on spending the years.”
If I were an Oak tree, I’d most likely be in the growing stage, and the old man, sad to say, in the withering stage. But we’re not trees; therefore, we can choose. And I choose to grow. Even in my withering days, I will grow. Only the moment I die, will the growing come to a halt.
The old man’s eyes met with mine. He nodded and smiled. I returned the gestures. I devoured my sandwich, drank my lukewarm coffee, bottoms-up, paid my bill, thanked the hostess, and jogged my way back home.
Love tree
My favourite tree is Golden Weeping Willow that is representing love in my country, and its’ Persian name, Leili Majnun, back to two lover story that they never been to gather after their father apart them forever.
Its’ long straight benches with tender shiny leaves make this tree unique and lovely, and it is still attractive in winter. How enchanting is in spring time!
When I wake up in early mornings, a Weeping Willow tree is my first pleasure view that I look at it. I used to see it before I make breakfast; sometimes I feel it hopes me a happy day when it is shaking its’ benches. It looks amazing when spring breeze flow through its ‘leaves and it is sparkling after a spring shower.
My Sole weeping willow tree is in small garden colourful flowers in front of our living rooms ‘window, and I sometimes sit under its’ shadow and read my favourite poetry book, Hafez, to back to my teen memorial.
It always sees me when I am happy, sad, excited, busy, and I share my feeling with it. Even though I get angry, I calm down when I looking at this gorgeous tree.
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