Under the Maple Tree

 

Last Sunday, I spent most of the afternoon lying in a lounge chair under my maple tree.  Early afternoons on the porch are hot this time of year even with a breeze, directly in the sun.  But it was pleasant under the big tree with a nice, lazy breeze and sunlight trickling through the leaves. 

I told myself I was reading, although my book spent more time turned down in my lap than in front of my eyes. Even though the temperature still shouts summer, the change in the light whispers fall.  It has been another hot, arid summer and most of the flowers have thrown in the towel.  The four-o-clocks are wilted, and I noticed after church that even the artificial flowers at the cemetery look bedraggled.

As I lay in my chair, I heard wild geese.  They flew right over my tree, so low I thought they were going to hit the highest branches.  There were at least 15 or 20, and I am sure they were on their way to the big pond on the next farm.  There is just something about wild geese that touches my heart every time.  Can anyone hear wild geese fly over without looking up to see?  The katydids and crickets still sing, but their normally cheerful voices are muted, as if they know summer is beginning its slow glide toward fall.

The dogs are scattered around my chair, lazy in the heat of the day.  Every now and then, one will rouse and come to visit, wanting reassurance that I still love them.  Scout, who still thinks he is a lap dog, tries to get on the chair with me and I have to explain that the weight limit on this seat does not include a one-hundred-pound collie.  His look makes it clear that he does not approve of such flimsy chairs.

The old tree would have stories to tell, if it could talk, about decades of seasons in this spot.  It is the only big maple left now from the four that shaded my childhood.  They were planted by my great-great grandfather when he built this house.  His son, my great grandfather named the farm for those trees – Maple Shade Farm.  A storm took the others two decades ago, and the remaining tree has lost a few big limbs.  It used to be a chore to rake all the leaves in the front yard.  Now there aren’t even enough to bother with. I would gladly tackle the job if I could have even one or two of the old trees again.

 A battered picnic table sits under the tree, where bushels of corn have been shucked, countless watermelons have been cut, homemade ice cream has been churned, birthdays have been celebrated, and children and puppies have played in its fallen leaves.  If I listen with my eyes closed, I think I can hear the echoes of laughter and the scramble of puppy feet. 

A swing used to sit there, until another storm destroyed the frame.  It was a Christmas present for my parents, from forty years ago.  My husband and I carried it on foot, laughing every step, from our nearby house to theirs on a cold Christmas Eve.  I don’t know how we got it there without dropping it and if my parents’ bedroom had not been on the back side of the house, they would surely have heard us.  It was big enough to hold 4 or 5 children plus my mom, who was practically child sized herself.  I don’t remember a big swing in the yard when I was growing up, but I do remember a tire swing Daddy put up for me, a glider and some old metal lawn chairs.  I would love to have those chairs now, and I am mystified as to where they went and why on earth we thought we should dispose of them.  Those old metal chairs probably didn’t have a weight limit on them – Scout would have approved.