The house I grew up in was previously occupied by the Jones Family. They had a son, Homer, who was born sometime around the turn of the 20th century. When Homer Jones grew up, he became a successful business-man, dabbling in cattle and oil the old-fashioned Texas way, and then he married Frances. They built a house right next door to the one he and I grew up in so I knew them throughout my childhood and adolescents. When Homer was a little boy, he planted a cottonwood tree in the backyard of that original house. I grew up under that cottonwood which, by the time I came along, was huge. My dad set up our trampoline under the umbrella of that magnificent tree. I can remember countless afternoons of lying on my back on the trampoline, watching planes make their way to DFW and staring at the blue sky between the green, waxy leaves. Oh, those leaves! If you have never heard wind through a cottonwood, you are missing something special. It is a uniquely distinct sound and because I grew up with it, I can feel at home almost any place I run into it. In fact, the day I realized I was in love with Aaron, I had been lying on the dock at the lake while he worked on his boat, listening to the nearby cottonwood dance in the wind. Also, my favorite place in the whole world is the Grand Canyon. On every hike I have been there, just as I am feeling beaten by the desert, I stumble upon a lone cottonwood perfectly placed for me to rest under until I find my strength. Cottonwoods are a part of my life.
Walking home from school or a friends’ house, I could always spot that tree from blocks away. My parents have very green thumbs and they took great care of all our trees, bushes and plants. Our cottonwood was taller than most other trees in our neighborhood. The squirrels played on its long branches and made a home in a knot-hole way up high. The birds flitted in and out of the tree or perched on branches and sang us lovely songs. It was a perfect shade tree and it protected us from the cruel Texas heat, summer upon summer. It was a wonderful yard to live in with our tree towering above.
Years after I moved away, my dad spotted a large snake climbing the tree. He saw the snake work its way to the knot-hole where the squirrel family dwelled. Over the next couple of weeks he kept an eye out for the snake. Instead he saw less of the squirrels as, one by one, the snake consumed them or scared the survivors away. Knowing my mother’s fear of snakes, he waited to report the events to her but realizing the snake would likely reappear to her shock and horror he finally divulged the information. He continued to watch for the snake but apparently it had moved on during the night or some other time my dad was not holding a vigil at the base of the giant cottonwood.
My mother could never grasp the concept that the snake was gone from her yard. My dad tried to explain that the squirrels were gone and there weren’t any other animals so the snake was gone, too. It didn’t matter to her. Her skin would crawl each time she stepped foot into the back yard and gazed up at the tree.
One week my dad went away to a funeral in Arkansas. My mother stayed behind. It was a beautiful time of year. Spring was coming on and she had lots of work to do in the yard; work that she loved. She and my dad had gone to the nursery, the days before he went out of town, to get some new flowers and things for her garden. When I went to keep her company in my dad’s absence, I noticed that all the new plants were still in their pots sitting around the patio. I asked her why she hadn’t started working; wondering if she was fearful of a late frost. She finally, sheepishly admitted that she was terrified to enter the yard without my dad there to protect her. I tried to coax her outside to do what she loved and enjoy the wonderful weather but she would have none of it until he returned.
It wasn’t long before we all realized that even with my dad back home to be the snake guard, my mother was never going to be comfortable with the snake tree. She started making strange observations about how old the tree was, that it was self pruning and dangerous, that it just didn’t look as nice as it used to. For a short while we brushed it off but soon it was obvious she wanted rid of the tree. Her final argument was that one of the branches was likely to fall off of the aging tree and knock my dad unconscious or kill him. So as crazy as it sounds, (because it is!) my dad had the tree cut down to settle her nerves. My nerves, on the other hand, were shot! I couldn’t believe that they would cut down a gorgeous tree with so much meaning to our family because of a snake that nobody had seen any sign of for months. I cried and begged them not to do it but it happened all the same.
To my surprise, the very afternoon that the tree had been cut down, I came home from work to find the entire trunk sitting in our back yard. It was incredible and I cried some more. Aaron had listened to my tearful pleas to my parents and had known for years how much I loved that tree. So much so that his very first purchase after we wrote the contract to buy our home was three tiny cottonwoods of our own to plant around our property. Upon learning that my parents were actually going through with cutting it down, he commissioned a wrecker service to bring it to our house. The trunk weighed so much that it nearly tipped the wrecker over when he tried to load it. I was overjoyed to have it with us.
Years before I had been to a fireside talk at Grand Canyon. We all sat on logs in a circle around a park ranger while he told us stories of the canyon. Aaron and I decided to mimic that to an extent. We set the freshly cut log in the center of our back yard, built a fire pit out of beautiful Austin stone in front of it and circled the whole thing in limestone underfoot. Year after year we gathered on the log to roast marshmallows, watch the fire and talk with family and friends. It was one of my favorite things about our house for the nine and half years we had it.
Sadly, at our last Halloween party, the top of the log started to cave in. It seems the sun’s rays did some harsh damage to the very tree that used to protect me from them. Upon closer inspection the next day we determined much of the log had rotted. Aaron thought some wood could be salvaged and he devised a plan to keep parts of it and make something out of it later on. He contacted a saw-mill where he learned how to cut it and where to deliver it and how long it would take to get back. I wasn’t quite ready to cut it up, though, and instead would drape thick blankets over it if we were going to sit on it to keep from sinking into the cracks.
After this past summer of incredible heat and no rain to speak of since I can remember, the log deteriorated even more. I knew Aaron was right when he indicated it was now or never if we wanted to be able to salvage anything from the log. So last weekend he dragged out the chainsaw and got to work on the tree. First he carefully cleaned out the rotted top and middle by hand. We were astonished when we lifted parts of the tree trunk and felt how light it was now. Then he rolled it over to get a good look at the remains and see which parts were worth saving. Luckily, before he put the log down in the yard, he placed pavestones under it to protect it from the ground. Doing this saved the underside of the trunk so only the top, exposed to extreme heat, was rotted. Finally he trimmed a very small amount off the end of the trunk. What was left resembled a canoe and I immediately thought, "I could float in that." My parents came over soon after and that was the first thing my mother said as well.
True to form, Aaron’s brain was busy thinking about what to do with the log. He had changed his mind on having the saw-mill chop it up and was now set on finding a way to keep it in tact the way it was. He has always been really creative and he can imagine things coming together much better than I can. After pulling the log to the front of the back yard, he carefully power washed it. Then he left it in the sun to dry out again. After that, we went inside and sat on the counter in the kitchen, which we do often; each one of us getting a corner on either side of the sink. He looked up at the ceiling around the rooms and told me he thought the hollowed out log would look great hanging from the ceiling as a light fixture. I thought it was the perfect idea! I have been lit up inside ever since. I can’t wait to see it in our home, lighting up the room, just waiting for someone new to come over to hear about its life.
According to my dad and Aaron, we can coat the log with oils that will protect it and keep it in its present condition for as long as I’m alive. Unfortunately it is just too soft a wood to withstand Texas summers outside. But I couldn’t be happier that we had it to perch on around our fire for almost a decade and now it will shine on inside with us.
When I think about all that Aaron has done to preserve this piece of my own history, without my ever even asking, my heart overflows with gratitude. It is just one of the countless things he does for me, and for others, to try to bring happiness to our lives. He is incredibly giving and such a wonderful friend. I love the way his mind works. I was at work when it struck me just how much he had done with that log so I sent him a message thanking him. I told him how sweet and thoughtful he was. He replied that he loved me and thanked me for saying that. Finally he said, “I’m glad you are the kind of person who likes that kind of stuff. You’re sweet.” Talk about melt your heart and make your day! How lucky am I!
