The Tree Patch

I thought you might enjoy another chapter from a memoir I have been working on for several years.

Dennis

The Tree Patch

Consider a tree for a moment. As beautiful as trees are to look at, we don't see what goes on underground - as they grow roots. Trees must develop deep roots in order to grow strong and produce their beauty. But we don't see the roots. We just see and enjoy the beauty. In much the same way, what goes on inside of us is like the roots of a tree. Joyce Meyer

No one can reap the fruit before planting the trees.

Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva

"For you will go out with joy

And be led in peace;

The mountains and the hills will break into shouts of joy before you,

And all the trees of the field will clap [their] hands.

Isaiah 55:12 NASB

I have a friend whose grandfather was a lumberman, managing several groves of pine along with a small lumber mill. When he was a boy, his grandfather took him to plant a tree together. My friend tells me he asked his grandfather how long it would take the tree to grow before it could be harvested. His grandfather simply said, “That day will be long after I’m gone, son.” My friend then asked his grandfather, “Why are you planting a tree you will never get to see harvested?” HIs grandfather’s reply? “I’m not planting it for me, son. I am planting this tree for you.”

Now that Dad is gone, my mind floats back to scenes from my childhood more often than I imagined they might. Part of me is wistful and melancholy, yet the old man perspective gives way to the wonder of a child’s point of view as I gaze back in time.

When my father was just a boy growing up on the farm, his dad - my grandfather - had set aside a portion of the 90 acres for the sole purpose of planting trees. We called it the Tree Patch. The specific trees chosen for this small 5 acre forest were Bois D’arc. We called them horse apple trees. Other names for this tree are bow wood tree and the Osage Orange Tree. The Bois D’arc is a small deciduous tree that grows to maturity in a relatively short period of time, reaching heights between 40 and 60 feet. Rife with thorns, the yellow center of the wood was often used to make dye by Native Americans who also valued the tree for the strong bows produced using the wood. Thus, the name Bois D’arc. Each fall, these large bushy trees would be laden with hundreds of rough, spherical, bumpy-to-the-touch inedible fruit - like skin made of cobblestone - and my brothers and cousins and I would use them as bombs for our many mock battles on horseback. Upon contact with the ground - or the back of one of my ‘foes’ - these cannon balls would crack open, splattering an Elmer’s Glue-like latex that was difficult to rinse off!

Beyond its obvious use from a boy’s point of view, my grandfather had wanted to accomplish several things with these hardy trees. Since Oklahoma can be a windy place, a line of these hardy, bushy, brambly trees could serve as a windbreak form the harsh winter winds blowing down from the north across the plains. Even without their leaves, the Bois D’arc’s numerous and tangled branches could provide protection from the onslaught. Many farmers and ranchers would plant a row of these hardy trees running east to west in order to give shelter to their herds during winter blasts of arctic air blowing in from the north.

In the days following the Great Depression, frugality was the midst of my grandfather’s generation, especially in places like Oklahoma, which had been hit hard by the difficulties of the Dust Bowl days. Steel fence posts were considered a luxury, so fence posts were made of whatever material could be salvaged. Since my grandfather raised cattle in addition to managing oil wells around the county, the need for sturdy fence posts was always a necessity, and the need to manage money was ever-present in his mind. The most affordable way to obtain fence posts was to grow them…and Bois D’arcs fit the bill.

My dad had helped Grandpa Jernigan plant the five acre grove sometime in the early 1950s. In very precise rows, they had painstakingly plotted out the rows to ensure enough room to grow to maturity yet make the most of the growing area, making for a path one could barely ride through when on horseback.

Since dad raised cattle and since cattle need to be fed in the winter when green grass has turned brown and dormant and stopped growing, we had to keep the cattle fenced out of the hay meadows and to keep cattle out of the hay meadow required a good strong fence. I still remember as if it were yesterday the time when we built the fence following the contour of terraced field between the front and back pastures. Dad told me we were going to fence off the hay meadow and that he needed my help…and this meant a trip to the Tree Patch to harvest fence posts…something Dad had talked about for many months.

Telling me his dad had planted those trees for just this purpose even before I was even thought of was like being invited into a living legend! For so long, Dad had talked about the time he and his dad had planted the forest and how one day we would be able to use the trees for the fences on the family farm. The stories were about to give way to reality - and I was beyond excited.

By the time I was about 8 years old, I was already driving the tractor and milking the cows, but I was not quite old enough or big enough to wield the chainsaw. Dad and my little brothers and me, hitched the flatbed trailer Dad had fashioned from an old pickup bed to the tractor and headed toward the Tree Patch. Walking through the forest, I was at once excited about felling that first tree but anxious about what the demise of that tree would mean to the layout of my own private adventure land. After a few minutes, Dad decided to select trees from the outer rows to better facilitate their removal from the tangled mess of branches. I remember the relief I felt at the realization that none of the inner hidden secrets of the forest would be revealed - that the inner mysteries of the Tree Patch would remain intact!

Selecting trees whose trunks were approximately 8 inches in diameter, Dad began cutting. I was captivated at the bright yellow saw dust that accumulated like fine golden snow all over dad’s feet and around the stump. My brothers and I played in the powdery snow while dad trimmed away the branches, adeptly leaving a roughhewn post of nearly 8 feet tall. Covered from head to toe in yellow sawdust, my brothers and I methodically dragged the debris of branches into a burn pile while dad moved on to the next tree.

As soon as dad had loaded all the yellow-centered fence posts onto the trailer, we drove the quarter-mile to the soon-to-be fence line. Dad then instructed me to get into the driver’s seat, explain to me the need to drive slowly along the side of the terrace in order for him to drag out the posts. Doing as I was told, I drove slowly along the side of the terrace while dad walked along behind the trailer. Every 8 feet or so, he would grab a fence post and pull it out, leaving a trail of posts in our wake. When the trailer had been emptied, it was back to the Tree Patch for another load. We repeated the process until enough posts had been laid along the entire fence row.

The next step required was the digging of the holes for the post. Dad used a post hole driller attachment - an auger - connected to the power take-off of the tractor to dig the holes. He also used a manual post hole digger to fine-tune any holes, depending upon the characteristic of an individual post. Since no two trees were alike, some were perfectly straight. Some had slight curves. Some had a gnarled bend. Not wasting a single post meant adapting the shape of the hole to best accommodate the shape of the tree, with the final result being the erect stance of the post in as level a line as possible.

After the posts were placed in the holes, my brothers and I pushed the dirt back in the hole while dad tamped the dirt into hole as tightly around the post as possible, securing it in place. After we were done, my brothers and I looked down the line of posts and imagined a line of soldiers standing at attention, awaiting the commands of their leader. Even in a fence row, the Tree Patch led us on never-ending adventures!

The next step in the process was the laying down of each strand of wire the entire length of the fence. Again, I drove the tractor while dad followed along behind the apparatus he had created for the purpose. The spool of wire was too heavy for one man and certainly two heavy for a boy, so dad ran a steel pole through the spool and attached each end of the pole to the draft arms - places to attach implements like plows and balers, etc. - and I drove the entire length of the fence line while dad made sure the wire unrolled properly. Once this task was completed, Dad used wire stretchers to make the wire taut enough to endure a cow leaning against it. Allowing me to wield a hammer, he taught me to measure the distance from the ground to the the placement of the wire and how to hammer in the galvanized fencing staple, securing the wire to the post. We repeated the process for each wire until the entire fence was completed.

The Tree Patch had served its intended purpose, requiring the felling of man trees, yet it had not seemed to even dent the forest or alter its sense of mystery. If anything, the loss of so many trees for that fence line had only added to the intrigue and mystique of the Tree Patch. My brothers and I continued to build forts until we were well into our early teens. And I still remember the day I went hunting with my trusty old Daisy BB gun.

I was probably around the age of ten when I set out to conquer the forest on this hunting expedition. Stealthily I stalked my prey. My prey? Whatever moved! I hoped for a rabbit but would have settled for a field mouse. Imagine my surprise when I heard a fluttering of wings somewhere above and just ahead of me…and the breathless anticipation and pounding of heart as the turtle dove sat on the branch well within range! Slowly and quietly, I aimed at the defenseless little bird. As the BB shot through the air, I remember thinking the world had gone into slow motion as I watched the small round missile fly through the air and then hearing the muffled thud and seeing the small explosion of feathers as the bird fell slowly from its perch to the ground below with a near-silent thud!

Imagining myself a great hunter, I proudly ran home with my prize. My parents were nowhere to be found, so I ran to Grandma Jernigan’s house and showed her my prize! She was so proud of me and offered to help me clean and cook my prize! After stripping the tiny carcass of feathers and after properly gutting the bird, Grandma fried him up and served him to me! Feeling as if I was in the court of a king and as if being served the finest feast I had ever been served, I ate that dove and pondered my next excursion while simultaneously reliving the victorious hunt over and over in my mind! Ah, the Tree Patch…

Although the Tree Patch was created in the first place with a very practical purpose in mind, my fondest memories and, to me, its greatest assets were the fun and adventures it afforded me and my brothers as we were growing up. After all, who can say they grew up with there very own private forest? I can!

The Tree Patch had proven to be so much more than a forest of would-be fence posts to me and my brothers. It was a haven and an adventure land and a place a boy could roam free for hours upon hours, playing and pretending and doing battle and hiding and seeking and riding and just dreaming. For years before we built the fence and for years afterward, the Tree Patch was a place to explore. I knew every pathway. I discovered hidden escape routes. I knew shortcuts. I knew the places I could squeeze through on horseback and places I could tether my horse from sight during mock battles with my cousins and brothers in order to carry out sneak attacks.

So well did we know the layout of the Tree Patch, my brothers and I could navigate its hidden twists and turns even through the dark of night. In the places where branches blocked the path, we knew when to duck. In the places where the turns were particularly treacherous, we knew how to nimbly and deftly wiggle through without a scratch, often leaving our pursuers trapped in a tangled mire of torturous brambles, making our escape all the more glorious.

Whenever I would feel sad or melancholy, I could find solace in the Tree Patch. Whenever I was filled with wanderlust and the need for adventure, I would head to the Tree Patch. Whenever I felt angry or whenever I felt betrayed or emotionally wounded, I would hide in the Tree Patch and somehow find release and healing for my boy-soul. Whenever I needed to explore the reason for my existence, I could find a measure of meaning in the Tree Patch. Whenever I needed to ask God the ‘why’ questions, I could go to the Tree Patch and cry without anyone but God hearing my sorrow. Whenever I needed to get away from the other voices vying for my attention, I could find the quiet place of life and silence enough to hear my heart cry in the Tree Patch.

The wonder of a boyhood memory leads me to ponder that, somewhere in my granddad's mind and vision beyond a mere windbreak for livestock and beyond the utilitarian purpose of a fence post, my grandfather had his grandchildren in mind. I like to believe he saw the many hours of exploration and adventure would be afforded to me and my brothers in the years to come. Even though I was the only one of his grandchildren my grandfather ever met on this earth, my dad made sure his legacy was passed on. How do I know this?

As of this writing, I am about to be a grandfather for the tenth time and my greatest desire is for my grandchildren to discover who and Whose they are; to have hours and hours of grand adventure; to be filled with a sense of exploration and wonder; to dream and to imagine and to know they are loved…merely and simply because they exist! Since that is my heart as a grandfather, I like to believe that was my grandfather's heart as well.

This is the reason I have created the Forest of Bren. This is the reason I keep the cedar tree in the campground in the middle of the forest decorated all year ‘round, making it Christmas in grandpa’s forest all year ‘round. This is the reason I have carved out 2 miles of trails and named them after my own grandchildren. This is the reason…that generation after generation would never doubt they are loved beyond imagination and that they have a sense of purpose. I want each of my children and each of my grandchildren to know…

This sign is going up just past the entrance to the Forest of Bren - the generational Tree Patch of my clan - inviting each generation into the grand adventure of life:

Stop.

Lay down your logic.

Put on your imagination and…

Proceed.

The old Tree Patch has long been gone, the trees dying off and the area having been cleared away for pasture…but its dear sweet memory lingers in me, deep in un-damageable places where things like fear and betrayal and old age and harsh words and the fickle, selfish ways and wisdom of man cannot reach. I can go there anytime I want or need. Now I am old…and I still find solace in my own private tree patch where I meet with God often…and explore with my grandchildren…and create memories for them and the generations to come. I did not plant the trees or carve those trails for me. I did all that for them…just as was done for me. It is joy and life to my soul…and I cannot help but think it was the same for my grandfather planting those trees back in his day - for me.

Dennis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2016/01/19/17/04/orchard-1149536_1280.jpg