I’ve mentioned before that I don’t have much of a “green thumb”. I’ve accidentally made a few things grow, but I’m mainly a death sentence to the botanical world. I try to stay to the simple stuff. Instead of tomatoes, I planted potatoes early this spring. It was actually Laura’s Idea. My wife started saving the “leftover” spuds out of the bag. You know, the ones that started sprouting eyes, ears and noses. She’d read about how to plant those and wanted to give it a shot. It was simple, just dig a hole, stick em in it, then cover said hole. They took about three months to grow. When the leaves that sprouted started to wilt, I dug up the potatoes. Viola! An entire meal’s worth of Fried Potatoes. Laura fixed some pork chops to go along with them, and we enjoyed them immensely. I ate most of them. Because I love me some taters. It was very satisfying to eat what you grow. I think it made it taste even better just to know I had a small part in making it happen.
About five years ago, I bought a sad looking discount tree at the local Wally World. It was a pitiful little skinny Willow tree, with a thin trunk and a few dozen tiny, fragile branches. It was less than twenty bucks. I thought I’d be great to plant a tree in our front yard, for our eventual grandkids to play in, and under. I took the poor, hapless thing home and planted it smack dab in the middle of our front yard, which is probably about a quarter, to a half, acre. It stuck out of the grass like a lonesome cactus in the desert. I had high hopes, but my realistic self said “don’t get too attached, you know how YOU do with plants” and I curbed my enthusiasm. We’d just have to wait and see.
The same afternoon that I planted the Willow tree, we had a storm come up. I don’t know how high the winds got, but it felt pretty bad. We sat in the house and listened to the fast-moving rain pound upon our metal roof, and the winds shrieked for just a few minutes. We heard a slight “bang”. Nothing huge, but enough to make us jump. I got up to walk through the house, checking for any window, or ceiling damage, when it stopped storming. All at once, it was clear again. There was a slight drizzle, but that was it. We all went outside to see the storm pass. At first everything looked fine. The side of the house, the edge of the roof, all looked normal. As I backed away from the house, I noticed something was missing. The northern half of the roof. Oh boy. It had disappeared. I walked around the house to the front yard and found it. Okay, most of it. The shredded metal roof was scattered all over the yard, and across the road that ran past my house, and in the field across from our home. There were big and little pieces of metal, wood and insulation everywhere. Some were stuck in the ground, like crooked fence posts, and some were just lying there. It was a mess.
In the middle of that mess stood a tiny Willow tree. The fella had taken all that wind and went with the flow. He’d dodged the wreckage that flew around him and stood there, a defiant little rebel. I examined him and decided he just might live. I decided he needed a name. Bruce Willow is what we call him. I’m kind of a big “Die Hard” fan. I figured if he could weather that kind of storm, he deserved a name. Bruce Willis’ character John McClane runs on broken glass, is repeatedly beaten, bruised and battered during the course of that movie. I think the little Willow deserved to have a name worthy of his perseverance. A couple of years later, we lost part of the “new” roof to high winds, yet again. Bruce stood the test again, living up to his namesake.
I talk to Bruce every morning. I tell him, usually from my car as I’m headed out to work, that he “looks great this morning”, and that “I love ya, Brucie!” and stuff like that. Yeah, I’m a corny, sappy guy. When I push my grandson, Cayde, in his little car, around the house we always go drive under “Bruce’s Car Wash” and let the now green and full Willow branches flow over us as we both giggle and feel the tree tickle us. He’s grown. He’s at least nine feet tall. He’s fully leafed, with many branches flowing from his trunk and then dipping to the ground. He’s a beautiful tree. Every time we’re out front, we’ll walk out and say “hi” and touch his slender, but strong trunk and branches. I think of him when it storms, but I know he can handle it. He’s Bruce Willow the Die Hard Tree.
It’s pretty awesome to plant something that you can eat. To taste the fruit of your labor and know that you can survive on what you grow is a very satisfying emotion. There is also something pretty special about watching a tree that you planted grow into the fullness of life. The feeling you get when you watch a two-year-old play under its shade, and even talk to it, by name, brings an incredible warmth to my soul. I feel a connection with that tree that gives off a vibe like family. I hope that Bruce Willow will be here when my great grandchildren get here, so they can hear the story about how he got his name. Yup. I told you I’m a pretty sappy guy.
Rolling Stones 