Teaching the Trees

Redcedar

77 Summer solstice: longest day of the year, first day of summer . We were going over to visit our friends on the other side of the river where there would be live music and lots of beer. That day was the quintessential beautiful day, with blue skies, puffy white clouds, and a warm breeze (I call a day like this a Colorado day, in complete unfairness to the few times that Maryland gets it right). It was a stark contrast to the day before, when the “bottom dropped out” and the sky deluged us with water. The rain meant that our friends’ long driveway would be filled with muddy potholes; not that there is anything wrong with long driveways full of holes—I live down one myself. I’m telling you this because it figured into our decision about what mode of transportation to take to the party . . . and eventually into this discussion of trees. If I were to go to my friends’ house by car, I would drive Redcedar 79 down to the end of my long, bumpy driveway, make a left onto a country road, drive five miles to where the road ends at the river, and wait for a ferry. The ferry is the oldest continuously operating free ferry in the United States. It can hold three cars, but usually there aren’t three cars waiting for it. I sit in my car while the ferry chugs to my side of the river so I can drive on. The ride takes about seven minutes, and most people stay in their cars. I always make it a point, though, to get out and enjoy the river; it’s a commitment I made to myself when I began working on my master’s degree at a university across the river. I decided that ferry time would be sacred time—I would breathe, enjoy, meditate , see; I would never study on the ferry. Once I reach the other side of the river it is less than a mile to my friends’ long, muddy driveway. It’s quite a nice trip, actually—the problem is that the ferry closes at dusk. If we should stay until after the ferry closed we would have to make a mood-sapping forty-three-mile drive through the city to get home. Taking all of that—and the beer—into consideration, we decided to arrive at the party by boat. Our boat, by the way, is just a little over ten feet long. I named her Marshmallow because that is both what she looks like and how she handles. In a nod to history it is also the plant I studied for my master’s degree. We had a beautiful journey downriver, and the poetry of Li Po was in my thoughts: Since water still flows, though we cut it with our swords And sorrow returns, though we drown it with wine, Since the world can in no way answer our craving, I will loosen my hair tomorrow and take to a fishing-boat.1 Perhaps it was on a day just like this one that he penned that verse. 80 The past week had been difficult, but now it was time to loosen my hair, drink some beer, play some horseshoes. At the party there were new people to meet and the usual assortment of dogs and children. Just before sunset the wind died down and the glass-smooth water reflected the silvers, pinks, and blues of the sky. I wanted to be back out on the water—it was time to head home. Our river is always beautiful, but sometimes—frequently —it is breathtaking. This was one of those times: the brilliant colors of the sky and the water swirled together, osprey circled overhead, and the varied shapes of the beautiful trees on the shore reflected onto the liquid canvas. The sun’s last light hit the eastern side of the river, illuminating a row of big, old eastern redcedar trees (Juniperus virginiana ). First one: green; second one: green; third one: green; fourth one: blue. At precisely that moment it became summer for me: the female cedar trees were forming their blue berries. Redcedar trees are among the species that have gender. They are either male or female, and only the females produce berries. So the first three trees I passed—the green ones—were males, and the...