I have no idea when it was planted. From the size of it when I first remember seeing it, my guess was it was part of the early landscaping done for the New York World’s Fair in 1963. If that was the case, we were close in age, one of the many things we had in common.
We both grew up in Flushing, Queens, not very far from each other. Some other characteristics were similar too. I’m sure that if you were to meet me for the first time, nothing about me would really stand out. I’m not very tall, or too short, not too fat or too thin. No real prominent features at all, actually, and that’s just fine with me. I’ve never been one who wanted a lot of attention anyway.
As far as not standing out, it was quite similar. It was not located in a central part of Flushing Meadow Park, but instead just on the periphery, if you were to map it. It sat on a comparably small patch of grass, not too far from a walking and bike path, close to a parking field. It was not very large, but created just enough shade to make it acceptable as a picnic spot. Its trunk was not so tall to make it difficult for a kid to climb into its branches, nor so short as to make that climb not worth making.
All in all, it was rather ordinary, simple, and unremarkable. No one would be fighting over sitting beneath it because it was a “perfect spot”. No one would be jockeying for a chance to place their blanket beneath it because of its huge umbrella of shade. But for me, that might have been its biggest charm. It was straightforward, uncomplicated, and unpretentious. To me, it simply became the “Tree”.
Although exactly how it became the “Tree” is lost in my memory. I do know that when my sisters and I were young, my father would regularly take a trip down to the park every Sunday afternoon, weather permitting. That weekly jaunt was more for my mom’s sake than anything else. Sunday afternoons was her “alone” time, when my dad would give her a break from having three kids running around our 2-bedroom apartment, doing what kids will do.
So originally, my dad picked the spot we would drive to each week, probably out of convenience, since it was just off a parking field. It had everything we needed, a nice patch of grass and a simple tree. Slowly, it changed from just a place we visited. It wasn’t long before we began to think of that patch of grass as our patch, that tree as our tree. We had staked out our territory, planted our emotional flag, and claimed it for our own, so to speak.
Having grown up around brick and concrete, that place in the park was our little oasis of green, and we cherished it. Speaking for myself, I remember sometimes feeling like I actually needed it to relieve my stress. Of course, today that strikes me as ridiculous, considering my stress was that of a ten year old. But it’s all about perspective, I guess.
As time went on and I got older, friends came into my life. Often times on Sunday, my friend Eddie would be over at my house, and my dad would announce he was off to the park to “bat around a few balls” and we were to come along. So Eddie and I would jump into the car with my Dad and my sisters, and head down to the park, were we would play Frisbee, or have a game of catch. My dad would grab his golf club and wiffle golf balls, drop a few down on the grass by the Tree, and one by one, hit them from one end of the grass patch, and then back again. I still can see him in he usual attire: a straw fedora, white tee shirt, checkered knee length shorts, white tube socks and loafers. Unless he was careful, his very Irish skin would get a painful red hue. No one used sun block back then, or ever thought of the dangers of skin cancer. Years later, he would pay for those days in the sunshine with a couple of easily removed basal cell “patches” but in the 60s, a sunburn was “just getting some color”.
When my family would go to the park together and have a picnic, we would of course, go to the Tree. Our picnics consisted of sandwiches, soda, and maybe a bag of chips, if we felt extravagant. Keep it simple, that was our motto, and you’ll have more fun. Truth is told, my folks were right: the simpler, the better. Just grab a patch of grass, some shade, a bike to ride around on, and a friend along for the ride. It didn’t get any better.
And so it went, year after year, until there came a point when going to the park with my family became uncool. Now I would go to the park on my own, or with a friend, anyway.
Still, the Tree was where I would go first, like stopping off to visit an old pal, and hang out for a while. Eddie and I would often climb its branches, and at one point, I think we carved our initials in one of them, to make it officially “our Tree”. I had visions, even back then, of visiting years later, climbing those same branches and still seeing my name carved there. It was a nice, comforting thought that some things don’t change; there is continuity in the universe.
As time passed, almost unconsciously, the tree took on other roles. When I started dating someone, I would often plan a picnic, and of course we would end up at the Tree. Sounds a bit crazy now, but a girl’s reaction to the Tree became sort of a litmus test.
As I had stated earlier, while the Tree was unremarkable, like a thousand others, it was lovely. I would always mention to my date that the spot was a special to me, and why.
I remember one old girlfriend. I had told her of our “history”, but after we arrived at the Tree and set up shop, she looked quizzically around and stated, “This is it?” I answered in the affirmative. She just shook her head.
Did I pay attention to that comment? Nope. Should I have? Yep, I should have, most assuredly. Years later, I finally realized that we were not on the same page. We were not even reading from the same book, actually. That was, coincidentally, just about the same time she broke up with me. Looking back, if I had just paid attention, that little comment really told me all I had to know. I was just too naive to realize it, or more likely, too blind to see it. Being an optimist can be a disadvantage, but you can’t wish sensitivity into someone’s heart. Oh, but for the use of a time machine, for just one day. I would have many things to tell myself.
When I first met the woman who would later become my wife, and wanted her to meet Eddie and his wife for the first time, Eddie and I agreed that we would have a picnic at, of course, the Tree. How did that go? Well, Toni and I will be married 23 years this October, so it went pretty well. She thought it was a lovely spot. “What a pretty tree”, she said, “I always loved trees.” That’s when I knew I was onto something.
Life has a funny way of moving on, whether you want it to or not. Time would pass, and I would realize it had been months, even years, since I had gone back to visit the Tree. Once, Ed and I got together one weekday afternoon, played hooky from work, for the sole purpose of going back to visit our old Flushing Meadow Park haunts. Of course, our first visit was the Tree. It looked a little worse for wear, bare in spots, but that was okay, because actually, so were we.
We climbed up its braches as best we could; we were now a lot bigger than we were the last time we attempted the task, and the Tree more frail, many of its branches had been trimmed. We tried to find our initials, but neither of us could quite remember exactly where we had carved them, and most likely the Tree had healed over the spot by now, anyway. But there it stood, and twenty-five years or so later, so did we. That in and of itself was an accomplishment.
Months, then years passed. One day I decided on a day off to drive by the old spot and see how the Tree was doing. It was a brisk Fall day, sunny but cold. I pulled into the old parking lot, and it being a weekday, I had the place to myself. I didn’t like what I saw.
The Tree was bare, but it was impossible to tell if it was the season, or something much worse. Its branches had been savagely pruned, the grass around it dug up, construction barriers and orange cones were scattered about. Something was obviously being planned, and looking at the whole area, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I stood in the parking lot next to my car with my hands in my pockets, planted in that spot. I couldn’t bring myself to get closer, I was afraid if I did, the Tree would look even worse. After a few minutes, I got back in my car, and drove away.
Eddie (now Ed) and his family live in a beautiful house in Westchester, the type of green place we always wished we had growing up. My wife and I had found our own little piece of green in Queens, in a lovely garden apartment co-op. In the last couple of years since my last visit, I had seen a great deal of construction going on in Flushing Meadows. A Recreation Center was being built, and as I passed it on the highway, I could see they were erecting something in the park right about where the Tree used to be. After what I had saw that fall day, I was pretty sure what I would find, but I waited until the all the building was completed before I returned to the park. So just last week, my wife and I went back, one more time.
I would love for this story to wrap itself up in a tidy, happy bow, but life is too seldom as we wish it. When we got to where the Tree was, it was hard to discern exactly where it used to be. The parking lot was gone, the bike path removed; there was hardly any way of telling exactly where anything was anymore.
While the Tree was gone, several new saplings had replaced it. It was, actually, a pretty little spot. In years to come I’m sure many a picnic will be enjoyed there. We both stood there a while, listening to the wind in the new trees, it was a lovely evening. Then my wife took my arm, and we went home.
If you were to visit me now, especially in the nice weather, you won’t find me in my house. But that’s okay, I won’t be hard to find. More than likely, I’ll be sitting with my wife or my neighbors just out front, relaxing in one of our lawn chairs. You see, directly out our front door, you’ll find me in a quiet, shady spot, under an enormous and beautiful Green Ash tree. From what some of my older neighbors tell me, it was planted at the same time as our co-op complex was built, around 1954 or so. So it’s got a few years on me, but that’s okay. In the 5 plus years we have lived here, I’ve grown to love it, and I, along with my neighbors and the co-op workers, keep it in good shape.
I’m almost fifty-one years old. I was born with some health problems, and years ago lost a sister from the same disorder. Life has taught me a few lessons, some rather hard ones, and some others that have given me peace.
I’ve learned that sometimes, you will lose the things you love, and they can never be replaced. But sometimes, if your heart is open, and you’re blessed, you can find love again. Love has a way of wanting to be around, if you’ll just let it. It’s true of people, and can be true of other things. It’s even true of something as simple as a tree.
