Woods Witness - Nan Collie

I.  Distant History

I am an unabashed lover of trees.  Running near naked through the firs and alder that ran along the creek behind our home, the little neighbor boy, Jeff, and I tore two squares each of old used white sheets from the rag drawer, using our cowboy belts to hold them in place as loin-cloths.  Wild natives, we ran our seven year old selves in and out of friendly firs, back to well-hidden forts behind the blackberries, and on across the farmer’s field to a tall, willowy tree with long slender branches.

We would straddle and slide out on one particularly limber branch till we got close to the end and could bounce up and down, pushing with our legs like a teeter-totter, hollering “Salami (small bounce), salami (small bounce), salami (small bounce), BALONEY,” launching ourselves high into the air on the wings of this tolerant tree.

I have always known them as friends, kin, a welcoming respite from mean-spirited playground taunting or the lunacies of adults.  It was out among the trees, walking in my father’s green and yellow rubber boots, where I found fresh deer tracks and scat, where I gathered long eastern Oregon pine needles on summer camping trips and made them into wisk brooms for my mother.

I often climbed up among the branches of the round and reaching tree in our front yard, and sat, bird-like, in a nest of safety and security, my legs dangling from this perch, this hidden place of wonder, held as solid and sure as the robins who came to lay their powder blue eggs and nest there each spring.

My brothers and I would use big flat rocks to crack open filberts from the two trees in our yard, relishing the first crunchy bites of whitened goodness.  We picked up walnuts from under the huge old leathered tree by the driveway, spreading them out across the basement floor to dry and later decorate our mother’s confectionary treats.

I knew the treasure of trees early;  from the bitter bite of walnuts to the green summer shade as my neighbors, Barbie and Teresa, and I simply flew on the swing-set behind their home.  Nestled among tall firs, we sang out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” at the top of our lungs, each of us Dorothy, each of us blissed beyond belief, held by the sweet scent of trees and endless summer days.

I have always walked among them.  I have always known to go out into their midst for balance, for breath, for respite.  I am home among the trees.