A Tree In Town

The old tree had seen a lot over the years.

Children who swung on and climbed its branches had grown in to adults and started families of their own. Some stayed in their hometown, others moved on. Everyone had, at one time or another, plucked a pear from its branches. Most took a moment to appreciate the tree as they enjoyed the juicy snack. As of late, though, the tree had produced less and less fruit as time wore on.

The small town the tree had been planted in had grown so quickly. Businesses came and went, buildings went up and were torn down, new replacing old. The tree was at one time in the very heart of the town, halfway between the library and the town hall, with the local grocery and hardware stores just across the street. Now, much of the hustle and bustle of life took place a few miles down the road. Larger chain stores needed more room than was available on the quiet main street. Across the street now sat small offices with little apartments above them. The town hall and library remained, mostly unchanged, although renovations were planned.

There had been hot, dry summers and cold, snowy winters. The tree had swayed in violent storms and stood tall on calm, pleasant days.

This was one of those days.

The sun was warm, but not overbearing, and a light breeze kept everything just cool enough. It was so close to perfect that you wouldn't know the difference.

A dark green pickup truck with a trailer behind it parked next to the curb in front of the tree. The tall, skinny man who got out had been caring for the tree for a long time now. The job was passed down from his father, who had provided tree service to the town. For many years he planted, trimmed, and, if necessary, removed trees for the town. The son grew up working and learning the trade, and carried on the business after his father's retirement.

This was one of the first trees his father planted when he began working for the town.

The son looked at the tree for a few moments. A sad smile crossed his face as fond memories came to mind. He had been one of the children to hang from the branches and climb the tree. He had eaten more pears than he could count, making his stomach hurt from over eating more than once. He had sat in the shade of its leaves, waiting for his mother or father to finish whatever had brought them to town hall.

His father showed him time and time again the signs that the tree needed more or less water, which branches needed to be trimmed, and how to tell which pears would be the sweetest. While they worked the son also heard stories of the town, interesting stories of residents, local bits of folklore. The tree had been a part of the conversation when he had learned much of what made him love this town.

His father had moved on from this life, taking that mysterious journey we all must make two years ago. The son held on to those stories and bits of wisdom, ready to pass them on when his own young son could appreciate them.

After a bit more sentiment than he was accustomed to, the man turned from the tree. He picked up a chainsaw from the bed of the truck. With a deep breath he set about his task, felling the tree. Soon the tree was on the ground with the limbs cut from it, the trunk sectioned into manageable lengths. He loaded all of this into his trailer, taking care to separate all the useful pieces. They would go to his shop at home. He still wasn't sure what they would be made in to, but he wouldn't waste any bit of them.

Removing the stump was a bit more work. By the time he was finished digging and cutting roots, he was sweating heavily. He refilled the hole in the earth with rich soil brought from his own compost pile.

He had known this day was coming for years now. Prior to his death, his father had pointed out the signs of deterioration in the tree's health and he had seen them too.

Secured in the front of his trailer was a sapling pear tree in a large pot. He loosened the straps holding it in place, and carried the tree over to the patch of dirt. After carefully planting the tree, he watered it from a bucket. He drove four stakes in to the ground around the tree, putting up a wire fence around it. The tree would need protection until it grew larger.

Satisfied that he was finished with his job, he looked at the tree again. Three more like it were in pots at home. He had brought the stoutest of the four here. The other three would be planted in the backyard with the previous generations growing there.

All of them had been grown from cuttings of the original tree.

Years ago, when he had first realized the old tree would eventually need to be replaced he took several cuttings home. Going through the process his father had taught him, he got them to root, transplanting them to a pot. Each year they weren't needed, they were planted in his yard. Three previous generations grew there.

With this new tree part of the old carried on, still watching over the town. He knew someday soon his own son, and other children would climb its branches and eat the pears from it. Maybe his son would even learn to care for this tree, and follow in to the family business. Whatever else happened, there would still be a pear tree halfway between the library and the town hall.

Sometimes the new remembered the old.

He smiled at that thought, and knew that wherever his father was, he was smiling too.