Old trees

I’m into old things, which makes things a tad easier when I look in the mirror. I’ve always been curious about old, because for me old is just a veneer, a mystery to be solved. As a kid I loved to explore abandoned houses left behind in empty fields. Behind old is a lot of time, a lot of experience, a lot of story.

Some of my favorite old things are trees. Old trees creak in the wind, provide shade in the heat, give homes to birds and scampering space to squirrels. They inspire poets (like Joyce Kilmer), give wood for our houses, for our furniture and fire up our nights. They even provide inspiration to map our pasts—where would genealogy be without the arms of a tree? Where would books be without trees?  Would we have read stone tablets while waiting for the invention of e-books?

I’m fortunate to have a yard filled with trees. Most of them were mere sticks when I planted them. They’re living testaments to the wonders of time, of aging, of enduring. Long live old trees. They pair perfectly with the young—room for a tree house, a swing, a shady spot to read a book. Old trees and children belong together kind of like old stories and young people. Everyone needs old trees in their lives. I hope you get to hug one today!

Back when I researched my family's Soviet past, it was trees that marked forgotten places and lives. Trees and people have strong connections. One of my mom's favourite songs mentions a linden tree. Old linden are scattered throughout Eastern Europe. Oh, the stories they could tell!


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