The Family Tree

Shades of cold gray and blue painted the sky. Tiny wet snowflakes spat in the bitter morning air. Kristin Beckett sipped her morning dose of caffeine as she peered out the window to the city outside. They say you can’t go home again, and maybe that was true. Or rather, maybe it should be. Of course, you can always travel to the physical location you called home growing up, but it was never really the same. For better or worse. Kristin clutched her plush floral bathrobe tighter about her neck and padded in stocking feet to the couch. She stared blankly at the pictures in the old album as she thumbed through it. A chubby-faced toddler standing beside a pear tree, newly planted, adorned the black and white photograph. Her grandfather. Her lips began to curl up in a bittersweet grin. If there was anything she remembered about her grandparent’s farm, it was that old pear tree.

The farm sat nestled among gently rolling hills. There were all the normal structures one might find. Stables, barns, silos, sheds, and of course the classic white clapboard farmhouse with a large front porch and red metal roof. In the backyard, just before the barbed wire fence on its own little mound, sat the pear tree. Kristin used to watch it when she was doing dishes in the kitchen sink. She marveled at how it changed season to season, year to year. In the spring it would blossom into life. Bees buzzed merrily around it, gathering the nectar from its blossoms. In the summer, the blossoms would turn to fruit. Golden, firm, and full of sweet juice. On many a summer’s day, Kristin would find herself sprawled in the tall, thick grass beneath it. Reading a book while eating one of the luscious fruits. Its flesh would spurt onto her chin leaving it tacky. By fall, the tree would burst into shades of flame and rust, and the leaves would fall into gentle little piles. Winter would slicken its bared branches. Ensconcing them in ice and glistening snow. The light catching on it glittered in an almost magical way. In winter, the whole farm looked like some secret fairy land. Snow fell, perfect and clean. Unslushed in contrast to the snow of the city which was inevitably tainted by the grime of traffic every year. No, everything on the farm seemed now to hold some kind of spell over Kristin as she sat. Still filtering through the forgotten memories in her grandparent’s photo albums.

She pulled the pictures she liked best from the cellophane protected sheets and began to make a pile. Pictures spanning the life of her grandfather. Him as a boy of about five, dressed in his Easter best. Standing in front of the tree full of spring blossoms. Another taken many years later. Her grandfather with a friend and their prom dates, squinting in the sunlight beneath the same tree. A little black and white dog played in the foreground. She continued. There were pictures of wedding parties and children and birthdays. All taken in front of the same old pear tree as it grew alongside the family. Finally, her collection was complete. These. These pictures. These moments were going to tell the story of her grandfather’s life at his memorial service.

Peeking out from above the treetops, the oxidized roof of a tall metal silo was visible as Kristin drove down the highway, and she knew it was their farm. She didn’t plan to stop by the farm. She didn’t plan to stay at all. She would stay in town long enough to attend the funeral and leave the next day. There were too many memories here. Growing up, she was different than most of the kids in the rural town that neighbored the farm. Most of the kids she grew up with resigned themselves to staying here. Here in the safety of the known. Everyone knew everyone and most everyone was related. Kristin was different. She had a fire in her spirit that struggled to break free for most of her life. She worked hard throughout high school to get out of this town, and she achieved her goal. Now, as she passed the old silo with it’s patchy red and white paint and the deteriorated dome of a roof; she began to realize how similar she was to her great grandparents. They had a fire too. A dream to make it in the Jim Crow South. Their dream was the farm and they made it a success.

Kristin checked into her hotel with barely enough time to change for the sad occasion. She grabbed the drive with the slideshow she’d made and met with the chaplain to set up. Anxiety bubbled deep within her at the thought of being back in the small town.

“Ahh…that old tree.” The deep voice boomed behind her. Kristin glanced over her shoulder with a smile. Her brother, Marlin, strode toward her. Handsome as ever in his gray plaid suit and black dress shirt. “I’m not going to lie, I’m kinda surprised you came. You haven’t been home for years.” Guilt mixed with the anxiety in Kristin’s belly.

It was true. She worked so hard to escape the small town with all its prejudices and gossip that she rarely ventured back again. It made no matter that she was now a savvy businesswoman with a life most here would envy. She’d made her peace with the past and felt no need to revisit it. She squeezed Marlin in a long overdue hug. They were all the family either of them had left now. The rest of the day passed in the typical reminiscing and eulogies. A true celebration of a well lived life, however bittersweet the occasion. The funeral was well attended, and she had to admit, it felt good to see so many friendly faces from the past.

Marlin drove with her out to the farm. Perhaps it was his attempt to persuade her to stay just one more day. It was to be his farm now, but as her grandfather’s health declined it fell into disrepair. Marlin himself hadn’t been there in a good year, and both siblings were shocked to see the wild Earth taking over the spot once more. Dead vines grew up the rails of the porch and the barbed wire fence was completely taken over by thick brush. Then Kristin’s eyes fell upon the tree and her heart sank. She ran toward it.

“I forgot to tell you. It was struck by lightning last fall.” Marlin’s voice was solemn. She glanced over the shoulder of her red woolen pea coat to her brother. Then bent beside the jagged charred wood. Sticking out of the little mound like a snarled finger, it was all that was left of the pear tree. Still kneeling, she gazed out across the farm once more. Her eyes caught sight of the old, dilapidated silo and she thought of the highway. Speeding down the highway. Far, far away from the stifling little town again. Back to the safety of the city and her life. She leaned in clearing dead leaves from the hollowed out charcoal stump. Springy coils of dark hair brushed against her cheeks cold from the freak April snowstorm. Marlin continued to speak behind her. “I’m sorry, Sis. I should have told you. And...” She turned from her work as he carried on. “And I don’t think I can keep the farm. Just look at this place! It’s worse than I expected. I could never afford to…” All at once, a surge of determination filled her veins. The flame lit, rekindled inside her as she pushed away more dead leaves. They couldn’t lose the farm. Not now. She recalled her grandfather’s stories about their family’s struggle. Buying the farm during the Great Depression. Fighting for a fair chance amid old prejudices. There were times they were threatened and vandalized and swindled. But they never gave up. Their tenacity overcame it all. Kristin displaced more leaves and was met with the overwhelming sensation of just how deep their roots ran here. She turned to Marlin.

“You won’t have to do it alone.” There was fire in her again. She turned back to what had caught her attention beneath the leaves. A tiny stalk. The wood still fresh and green and weak. But, like the Beckett family, it had risen like a phoenix. And she knew where she belonged.