Planting Seeds of a New Friendship
Trees for Hurricane Damaged Del Rio
He told me that to smell a rose is to be visited by the spirit of a departed loved one. I liked his way of thinking, and as I bend to take the photograph of the rose, blooming in the middle of the chaos, I inhale and pray for a visit of the person who planted the rose.
Neither he, nor anyone in the flood ravaged area upon which I stand, planted the rose. It appeared, like the iris we found, like the immeasurable weight of sand, and like the other items which have made themselves known after the floodwater subsided.
I am there to deliver trees, but I came away with new friends.
As with all interactions, I will not use the names of the people I met because not only do I believe it to be disrespectful, but if I had everything I owned swept away, I would like to rebuild without fanfare. Yes, please, come help, but don’t plaster my name across the internet. When everything else is lost, let us retain our dignity and privacy. I travel alone, as I do most of the time. Just me, the GPS, and a pistol because a woman alone in the backwoods where the cell phone coverage drops ought to be smart enough to carry something by which to defend herself from snakes.
I could feel the snake eyes on me. Honest, I could.
I was there delivering the trees. Trees donated by friends and family members, trees I’d taken from the land in February and repotted after my difference-making-friend, Casey, and I had a chat about what was to be done with all this open land after Helene.
“It’s gonna be hotter-n-hail this summer,” I had said. “The kind of heat that kills trout.”
She agreed and added, “I’ve got a plan.”
And what a plan she had. Plans to re-wild land near her. A seed-sharing, plant-sharing good plan. I vowed to do the same, only in Del Rio, Tennessee because when you see a before and after photo that looks the one below, well, someone must do something and why not me?
The incredible thing is that the plants must have heard our the chatter between me and Casey. Suddenly, I noticed an abundance of bee balm like never before, maple seedlings galore, and Mr. Coleman’s Meyers Lemons had formed a cluster of seedlings below the mother tree. I’ve had this tree for over a decade without a single baby forming beneath the branches. These glorious trees, will thrive in below freezing temperatures. Bees love them and they form fruit which makes delicious pies and lemonade. The moment I saw Mr. Coleman seedlings, I knew the trip was anointed for he was surely a man touched by the creator.
After loading Lizzy (my truck) and making the 2-hour-trip, I find myself were I am supposed to be in more than one way. What I found can’t be understood without personally experiencing it; by placing your feet on the ground. An area that was once paradise, once filled with buildings and homes, once lush with trees and plants was gone, either washed away or buried beneath a mountain of sand.
Who was I to show up with a truck load of greenery?
Absolutely no one.
The offering seemed miniscule when unpacked. The property now has many vacant lots. Many have chosen not to rebuild. However, this land should be used as a green space if for no other reason than to prevent the encroachment of Japanese Knotweed which is one of the most invasive species on the planet (this from the women who loathes privet hedge). Knotweed is everywhere and it’s insidious. Even if building occurs later, something needs to cover the ground now. I curse myself for not bringing stonecrop and vow to include it with the next trip.
As we walked the man’s property, I ask if he wears protective gloves when touching the dirt. I worry about folk getting injured while rebuilding. He didn’t seem concerned.
In the distance, a clump of daisies bloomed, and in another spot a small clump of creasy greens began to unfurl blooms. The man tells me about his plans to rebuild, and suddenly tears up. “My brother. . . ” he said.
For a moment he can’t speak. A strong gust of wind blows, physically moving me forward. It’s the spirit of his brother, of that I’m certain. “He’s here. With us. We are meant to speak about those we have lost, and to speak to them. They miss us; just like we miss them.”
He shakes his head. He can’t.
I nod. You can. “He can see you, “ I say while looking toward the heavens where a window of blue has just opened. “He knows what you’re doing. I promise.”
The man shares a memory of his brother, of a moment when he knows his brother is with him, here, guiding him, helping him rebuild using words only two brothers know. We are both teary eyed now, this stranger-man, and this tree-loving-lady. It is a holy experience. I sense Mr. Coleman nodding. My mother-in law and my mother smile as the man and I speak of trees, and of plants, and about his daughter. We are creating a new friendship. Soon his wife would return from the pet grooming business she operates. We are to be friends. Trust me on this.
The spirit of whomever planted the rose and the iris- wherever it washed here from- it is with us also. All whose plants traveled here with me, and the spirit of the woman whose daffodils I snatched safely into my possession this February from the homesite of a woman I didn’t know, a woman long gone whose house was demolished to build a wider road because don’t we all need more roads and fewer trees?
Dont. Get. Me. Started.
We say our goodbyes. I turn back to the cluster of greenery we have unloaded. Providing shade from the elements seems impossible, but still, the little trees will help. I hope. For with them is the spirit of those who have come before us.