Years ago, we met a miracle worker. Just a man, really, but over the years he became something of a hero to us. He is our tree doctor.
The first time I met him, HHH couldn’t be home. I showed him the Russian olive in the back, one of the biggest trees at Winterpast. She was sick. Very sick. Many of her limbs had begun dying back, and despite everything we’d tried, she wasn’t getting better. The tree doctor walked around her, looked up, looked down, examined branches, and thought for a while. “Hmm. I don’t usually recommend this, but this one is beyond repair. I think we need to take her out.”
Well, when the tree doctor says a tree has got to go, I suppose it’s got to go. I’d already spent $900 the year before on medicine trying to save her. We’d given it our best.
Then HHH came home.
I told him what the tree doctor had said. You would have thought I’d announced plans to bulldoze Winterpast. “That will NOT happen on my watch. No.” I think he was about three minutes away from chaining himself to the tree.
So, the tree doctor came back. We would give her one more try. And so we did.
She’s not back to her former glory, but she’s coming back. Slowly. Quietly. As trees do. Just late yesterday, twelve doves enjoyed resting awhile in her branches. Well done.
Our tree guy has become part of the rhythm of Winterpast. He shaped our beloved apricot tree and tended the others. We have thirty-five of them, so there is always somebody needing something. He also unburdened me of the horrible Chinese apple, a tree that was hated on many levels. I don’t miss it. Not even a little bit.
This year, though, his visit will be different. He isn’t simply the tree guy anymore. He’s a friend.
He’ll come while the trees are still green so he can see what happened after last year’s pruning. He’ll examine the new growth, look for trouble, and see what responded well. Then we’ll make plans for the dead of winter, when the trees are quiet and it’s time to prune again.
But this year, our tree doctor returns a grieving man. He has lost his beloved wife.
There is nothing I can do to prune away that kind of pain. There is no medicine I can pour around the roots. No diseased branch I can remove that will make the rest of him suddenly flourish. I know that. HHH knows that.
So perhaps this year Winterpast can give something back to the man who has cared for her trees. He can walk among the gardens. Stand beneath the apricot. Check on the stubborn Russian olive that wasn’t supposed to survive. Maybe he’ll sit for a while and simply be.
There is something about a garden that understands grief. Things die there. Things struggle. Limbs have to be removed. There are empty spaces where something beloved once grew. And then, sometimes when we’ve nearly given up, a tiny bit of green appears.
Winterpast is an amazing comfort to those that have lost. She knows how.
Boy, do we know that.
