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When I was ten years old, I lived in a campground in Knutsford, British Columbia, just outside Kamloops. Mostly, the area was beige desert ranch country that stank of alkaline water, but the campground was located in a lovely tiny valley with lots of trees. The valley almost looked like a pit dug out of the rolling hills surrounding it. The hill immediately behind my home, a 31' travel trailer, rose very steeply for about fifty feet until levelling off to scrub and tiny cacti, and a dusty, tumbleweed-swept construction yard.
The hill was my frequent playground. Along with the other children in the campground, I built forts and created a complex series of footpaths and boobytraps. One hot autumn day, as I worked steadfastly at nailing an orange box to my most recent fort, I was shocked to hear the loud, unmistakable buzzing of a rattlesnake. I froze, trying not to move anything, and scanned furiously with my eyes. I couldn't see the snake anywhere, but it seemed to me as though the rattling had become even more insistent. That's when I jumped as far up and out as I could. It's a wonder I didn't break my neck coming down that steep grade, but at least I didn't get bitten by an angry snake.
During the course of my regular communions with nature, wood, and nails, I discovered what I believed was the most beautiful baby tree in the world. It was a young evergreen, probably a fir tree, and it had the classic Christmas tree shape. All of the needles were a rich, dark green. I couldn't find any dead needles anywhere. Awed by this little tree's perfect beauty, I declared it a sacred tree, and began to clear the area around it so it would have more room to grow. I swept all the dead needles from its feet, and plucked out the little weeds and herbs that grew immediately around it. I wanted it to remain pristine, and I wanted it to grow into an enormous, beautiful tree.
Every day, after school, I'd bring offerings to this tree. I found shiny bits of metal, little bits of bright orange and pink marking tape, and brightly coloured buttons and toys, and I'd bring them to the tree and ceremoniously gift them to it. I tied the ribbon in perfect little bows on the tree. Whenever a needle turned brown, I'd carefully pluck it off the tree, making certain the evergreen was indeed ever green.
To my childish eyes, the tree was even more beautiful this way.
In the meanwhile, down at the other end of the campground lived a French family. For whatever reason, the kids had disassociated themselves from all the other children in the campground. They treated us with rudeness and disdain. The eldest girl, Joyce, was a "big kid," being a whole year and a half older than me. I remember feeling hurt that someone who was supposedly so much more mature than I should be such a meanie. My parents were friends with their parents, and Dad told me I should cut these kids some slack because apparently, they were having a really difficult time with their homelife. I never did figure out exactly what was going on, but one fateful day, the children, filled with rage over something or another, went to the construction yard at the top of the hill and busted in a bunch of windshields on the tractors.
Within the week, the construction company had put up high chainlink fences along the periphery of their property. When I went to go visit my tree, I discovered that the tree was at the very corner of their property. It grew about one and a half feet on the other side of the new fence, right in the corner. There was no way I could reach the tree, let alone ministrate to it in the way in which it had surely become accustomed.
I think I cried.
Visiting the tree was like visiting someone in jail. I watched the bows biting into tender branches. I saw the needles getting bunched up in the ribbon. The ribbons became faded and ragged with time, and weeds began to grow close to the roots again. Dead needles began to appear.
Not long afterwards, Mom and Dad hooked the trailer up to our truck and moved deep into the Rocky Mountains. Although I became even more intimately involved with nature, living off the land for a while, I never did become a dryad again.
The hill was my frequent playground. Along with the other children in the campground, I built forts and created a complex series of footpaths and boobytraps. One hot autumn day, as I worked steadfastly at nailing an orange box to my most recent fort, I was shocked to hear the loud, unmistakable buzzing of a rattlesnake. I froze, trying not to move anything, and scanned furiously with my eyes. I couldn't see the snake anywhere, but it seemed to me as though the rattling had become even more insistent. That's when I jumped as far up and out as I could. It's a wonder I didn't break my neck coming down that steep grade, but at least I didn't get bitten by an angry snake.
During the course of my regular communions with nature, wood, and nails, I discovered what I believed was the most beautiful baby tree in the world. It was a young evergreen, probably a fir tree, and it had the classic Christmas tree shape. All of the needles were a rich, dark green. I couldn't find any dead needles anywhere. Awed by this little tree's perfect beauty, I declared it a sacred tree, and began to clear the area around it so it would have more room to grow. I swept all the dead needles from its feet, and plucked out the little weeds and herbs that grew immediately around it. I wanted it to remain pristine, and I wanted it to grow into an enormous, beautiful tree.
Every day, after school, I'd bring offerings to this tree. I found shiny bits of metal, little bits of bright orange and pink marking tape, and brightly coloured buttons and toys, and I'd bring them to the tree and ceremoniously gift them to it. I tied the ribbon in perfect little bows on the tree. Whenever a needle turned brown, I'd carefully pluck it off the tree, making certain the evergreen was indeed ever green.
To my childish eyes, the tree was even more beautiful this way.
In the meanwhile, down at the other end of the campground lived a French family. For whatever reason, the kids had disassociated themselves from all the other children in the campground. They treated us with rudeness and disdain. The eldest girl, Joyce, was a "big kid," being a whole year and a half older than me. I remember feeling hurt that someone who was supposedly so much more mature than I should be such a meanie. My parents were friends with their parents, and Dad told me I should cut these kids some slack because apparently, they were having a really difficult time with their homelife. I never did figure out exactly what was going on, but one fateful day, the children, filled with rage over something or another, went to the construction yard at the top of the hill and busted in a bunch of windshields on the tractors.
Within the week, the construction company had put up high chainlink fences along the periphery of their property. When I went to go visit my tree, I discovered that the tree was at the very corner of their property. It grew about one and a half feet on the other side of the new fence, right in the corner. There was no way I could reach the tree, let alone ministrate to it in the way in which it had surely become accustomed.
I think I cried.
Visiting the tree was like visiting someone in jail. I watched the bows biting into tender branches. I saw the needles getting bunched up in the ribbon. The ribbons became faded and ragged with time, and weeds began to grow close to the roots again. Dead needles began to appear.
Not long afterwards, Mom and Dad hooked the trailer up to our truck and moved deep into the Rocky Mountains. Although I became even more intimately involved with nature, living off the land for a while, I never did become a dryad again.
