We live in a sweet old neighborhood of Seattle which is just north of the University of Washington. It’s full of tree-lined streets and post-WWII bungalows that used to be called “starter homes” but which are now – given the crazy real-estate situation in Seattle with low inventory and high demand – being pulled down or renovated and modernized for people who expect a lot more space. So far, we’ve resisted renovating our place if doing so involved more than a few cans of paint. We did, however, take down two non-producing cherry trees in our back yard recently – they made small bumps in the lawn and didn’t give us any cherries. It was sad taking them down. I like trees. I even like bumps.
Just to our west, we have relatively new neighbors who moved in after developers finished a total re-design of their home. It’s sleek and hip now. I like the new couple well enough, but I miss our old friend, Sonny, who lived there even longer than the 28 years we’ve lived in our place. I miss talking to him over the rickety picket fence (a fancy new fence went in) and I miss helping him with the harvest from his Italian plum tree, which got pulled down when he moved out. Another sad moment, watching that tree come down.
As Sunny aged, it was harder and harder for him to take care of the house and yard; eventually he went to live with his daughter in Atlanta, and his yard got stripped down to just about nothing – I think the new style is called “low-maintenance.” Bye-bye, plum tree.
But a huge evergreen still looms over the northwest corner of what will forever be called “Sonny’s place”; everyone in the neighborhood uses the tree as a landmark for friends who visit – you tell friends to either turn right or turn left “at the big tree” to get to a particular house. It anchors the neighborhood the way a needle anchors a compass. A couple of winters ago, a huge branch broke right off in a storm and fell on a car parked in the street – no one was hurt, but neighbors began asking about the roots underneath the tree. What direction does the tree lean? Which direction will that tree fall if/when it falls down? How deep do its roots go? Evergreen roots are notoriously shallow – that’s why so many evergreens pull up their root balls when they fall.
As it turns out, one huge root of the tree is now making a large bump in the street in front of the house. Five or six times a day, I hear some car hit the bump going way too fast. You know the sound: metal hits asphalt with a bang. I can hear the ka-klank even from inside our house with the windows closed, and I can imagine the scene inside the car: brain jarred, yelp of surprise, driver’s hands gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter, car brakes applied too late to make a difference. If a Fed-Ex truck or an open-bedded pick-up goes flying over the bump with packages or equipment or a load of lumber in the truck bed, forget it: it sounds like there’s been an accident, and more than once I’ve gone outside just to reassure myself that it was only another driver who didn’t know what was coming.
So: hitting that bump. Isn’t it weird how things like that can take over your thoughts? I’ve been obsessing about the bump. I think of it as something completely organic and natural, made by a beautiful tree which was already large before our homes were built, before the street was paved, maybe before there was a street at all. It’s normal to think about the tree because we can see it – it’s elegant, threatening, dark, gorgeous, powerful, stately. It’s a terrifying and regal monarch that is showing its age.
What we don’t think much about are a tree’s roots, hidden until we trip on them or go flying over them. Of course, anyone whose been down that street more than once or twice knows the root-bump is coming and slows down. We learned our lesson the first time sparks flew from the back fender. We love the tree, so we don’t mind the bump. We respect it.
Is it too much of a stretch to think about that bump in terms of our writing lives or our current writing project? I think the metaphor is easy: bump = difficulties. Who doesn’t hit bumps along the way? And who expects there to be NO bumps? And who, having hit bumps before, doesn’t reconsider the speed at which he or she is traveling? Who doesn’t take a big deep breath and slow down?
Ah, there, I knew it, I knew I could get around again to slowing down. That seems to be my mantra lately. My advice always seems to be to slow down, ponder, observe, learn lessons, move on with care. Don’t avoid the bump, just anticipate it.
Does this obsession with the bump (that is, with respecting its inevitability) have something to do with age? Well, yes, I know I took more risks when I was younger. I drove faster, wrote faster, hit more bumps and simply gripped the steering wheel with whiter knuckles. But it’s also about an approach to problem-solving (whether the problem is with your writing, your relationships, your attitude) that makes sense to me. Bumps happen. If you know they’re coming, you can decide whether to take them slowly or go sailing over them and lose your fender. You can choose, you can learn or you can forget about learning. Depends on how much you like your fender, I guess. And let’s see: your fender is a metaphor for…for…
Oh, forget it. All I know is I’m fascinated with that bump. It speaks to me right now. It says “I’m here.” And I say, “I know you’re here.” I talk to trees, I talk to tree roots, there it is. When I sit down to write, I don’t expect it all to be smooth sailing. Same with life. All smooth sailing???? Who believes that? Sparks are bound to fly, sooner or later.
I’m sure Sonny didn’t expect it to be all smooth sailing either. Eventually, the big tree might need to come down, just like the plum tree and the cherry trees. We might need to find another anchor for the neighborhood. Meanwhile, when I hear those bangs and ka-klanks, they don’t annoy me. Just the opposite: they make me smile. I tell myself, “If you like trees, Julie, you better like their bumpy roots.”
Note: I have a poem of mine about the strange nature of mammatus clouds at The Drift Record today. Click on the link if you would like to read it.