Rebecca Falzano - What Trees Tell Us

 

I grew up in a backyard filled with trees. Maple trees, oak trees, elm trees, birch trees. There was this one year where my mom decided she didn't want jewelry anymore for Mother's Day. She wanted trees. And so, my dad got to planting them all over the yard, and then he built my brother and I a treehouse, so that we could sit inside and look up at the leaves. So, it was not such a stretch that when it was time for me to find my own home with my own family, that I would gravitate towards one with some pretty epic trees. 

 

The house my husband and I found was built in 1825, a classic Maine farmhouse. Loads of history and charm, character and loads of things that needed to be fixed. [audience chuckles] It had these two incredible trees that were just as old as the house, so a couple centuries old. The first one was in the front yard. It was a massive, old, beautiful beech tree. The canopy of this tree was so wide that even though we had driven by this house hundreds of times, we had never noticed the house, because the tree was just so huge. You couldn't even fit your arms around the trunk. And then in the backyard, there was this incredible apple tree, also really old. This tree had a mystique about it. It was craggy and twisted. It just held court over the backyard. 

 

We learned that the house and the yard had been lovingly cared for and tended to by the same family for over 50 years. The couple was now in their 80s. They had planted gardens, they had farmed the land, they had built additions, they had fixed things, they had devoted their lives to taking care of this space. It was clear on the day that we did the walkthrough with them, they were pointing out all the things in the house that they were going to leave behind for us. It was clear that this house had become part of their family, and it was clear that them leaving it was not so much a choice but a necessity. 

 

As we pulled out of the driveway that day, I looked in the rearview mirror and I saw the older man start to cry. When we were out of sight, I started to cry, too. I was thinking about my own dad. He had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease not long ago. I was thinking about all the ways that he had taken care of my parents' house over many decades, and their yard, fixing things, building things, growing things. I was thinking about how sad it is to spend your life working towards something, taking pride in it, and then having to leave it behind before you are ready. It broke my heart. 

 

A few days after we moved into the house, we found a curious package and a letter from the old couple addressed to us. The package had a bag of tobacco in it, and the letter said that the woman who had lived in the house before the old couple was convinced that the apple tree in the backyard was haunted. [audience chuckles] She had some really weird experiences with this tree. As a result, the older couple would sprinkle tobacco on the roots of this tree every time they would have it pruned as an offering. And so, they were leaving the tobacco to us, so that we could carry on this tradition. 

 

It's not lost on me that they waited until after we signed [audience laughter] on the dotted line to disclose a possible haunting in the backyard. But it was also 10 days before Christmas, at the height of a pandemic, and we had just moved our family with two young children. And so, I just could not take one more thing, especially a haunted tree in the backyard. So, I tossed the tobacco and the letter aside, and I didn't really think twice about it. That spring when the ground thawed, we had a fence installed. The house sits on a busy intersection on a busy road, and we wanted to keep the dog and the kids all contained. 

 

When the fence company came, they did a walkthrough with us and they stopped at the apple tree. They said, "We are so sorry, but we can't fence in this tree. There's a steep slope behind it that goes into a ravine, and so it wouldn't be safe. We're going to have to place the fence between the tree and your yard." I was devastated. I wanted the tree to be part of our yard, but we compromised and had them install a gate, so that we could go visit the tree. 

 

The fence was finished on a Friday. On a Saturday morning, my daughter, who was eight at the time, was playing in the living room. She looked out the window and said to my husband, "Hey Dad, who's that guy standing under the apple tree?" My husband said, "What? What guy? What are you talking about?" She said, "Dad, the guy in the blue cloak with a long white beard." My husband saw no one. I hear this several rooms away and immediately panic. [audience chuckles] I'm thinking back to the letter and the tobacco and how I've just carelessly forgotten about it. I try not to panic too hard. 

 

My husband and I don't speak about this for a couple of days until my daughter brings it up again, and says, "Did you guys ever find out who that guy was under the tree?" At this point, we do what any elder millennials would do and we take this to the group chat. [audience laughter] We text our friends, "SOS, possible haunted apple tree?" [audience laughter] Their replies start coming in immediately. One friend finds this hilarious and starts sending us memes of Merlin the wizard who wears a blue cloak and has a long beard. Another friend has done a deep dive into ancient literature and has found a loosely connected wizard figure and trees. And then, a third friend has taken this very seriously. 

 

She's consulted a spiritual guide on our behalf [audience chuckles] who has told us that the tree feels othered by the fence and that what my daughter saw was a warning and we would need to make amends immediately. So, of course, this is all my fault. [audience chuckles] I decide I need to take matters into my own hands quite literally. So, I walk to the backyard to have a conversation with my tree. [audience chuckles] I put my hand on the trunk and I say, "I'm sorry. You have been here so much longer than us, and I promise you that as long as I'm here, I will take care of you, and you're part of our family now." 

 

As I take my hand off the tree, I feel this energy course through my body from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head, and I proceed to vomit. [audience laughter] Now, I am not a puker. With the exception of my two pregnancies, I do not have a nervous stomach. And so, I am shocked. And I text my friend, the friend with the spiritual connection. She says, "I'm on my way. I'm bringing supplies." [audience laughter]

 

So, she shows up. She's purchased some tobacco, she's brought some crystals just for good measure. I've gathered some grass clippings and some flower petals from the yard, and we make our offerings to the apple tree. We say a few words, and the tree seems at peace. There's no more weird sightings or anything unusual happening. And that spring, the tree bloomed the most beautiful pink confetti blossoms. And all is well with that tree. 

 

A few months later, my thoughts turned to the other old tree in my life, the beech tree out front. There was one night where I couldn't shake the feeling that something awful was going to happen to that tree. There was no reason for me to feel this way, there was no rain or wind or storm or anything, but I was convinced that something was going to happen to this tree, and it wasn't going to be good.

 

At 05:00 AM that night, my husband and I woke up to a giant crash and a thud. The massive beech tree out front had split in half. It narrowly missed our house. It took out a power line. Luckily, no one was hurt, but I was devastated. This tree that I loved so much was broken in two. But more than that, I was terrified, because something was going on with me and these trees. I couldn't explain it. It made no sense to me. But I vowed right then and there that if these trees were trying to tell me something, I was going to have to learn how to listen. 

 

My premonition about the beech tree was spot on, but I couldn't have been prepared for what happened next, which was that I would get the call from my mom that my dad was at the end of his battle with Alzheimer's. I would have to drive to upstate New York from Maine to say goodbye. Losing a parent is impossible. And everywhere I looked, inside and outside the house that they've lived in for 50 years, I saw evidence of my dad's decline. 

 

A couple weeks before he died, a tree had fallen in their backyard. And in all of our grieving and making arrangements, we had just left it there. We didn't have time to take care of it. And a couple months later, I was back in upstate New York in my childhood backyard with my own kids playing baseball, near where my dad taught me how to throw a ball, near that treehouse he had built us and all the trees he had planted. I noticed the tree and the grief washed over me. 

 

I missed my dad. He would never have let this tree just sit here for this long. He would have cleaned it up immediately. He would have chopped up the wood and made neat piles of firewood for that winter. He would have maybe used the wood to build something. Better yet, he would have noticed that the tree was at risk of falling, and he would have done something to shore it up, to prevent it from falling in the first place, because that's just who he was. And I, in all of this grief, had forgotten my promise to listen to the trees. So, I went up to this tree to get a closer look. As I approached it, I realized something that I was not expecting. This tree that had been lying there dead, forgotten in the middle of winter for months, was actually somehow blossoming the first tiny blooms of spring. Thank you.