A tree runs through it..

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
—From "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer

I ain't an arborist...  I don't run an orchard... or a Christmas Tree farm..  but I loves me some trees. (YES, gd [gosh darn] Covid, I'm bored.)

Growing up on Miller Street by good ole WJC.. on any given Summer day you'd find a handful of Flanigans, a Miller, maybe a Greer, and a Schultze in the front yard of 449 Miller, playing wiffleball, wearing basepaths into the grass - a little kid's heaven - as I look back on it.

There were perils.  The water meter was 2nd base, and si, if you slid wrong - ouch.  It didn't give much.  Or, if you were looping around the water meter in hopes of  a triple, quite frequently the sidewalk would trip you, tear your jeans, elbow, knee, pride, or worse, you'd be tagged out if you slipped.

Nothing, NOTHING approached the 'ouch' of the big ole droppings of the humongous thorn tree in the Flanigan's front yard.  It was cleverly stationed somewhere around right field, but the thorns often came into play between first and second base.  One of the few trees I've ever hated.

I grew up (physically) in that house.  Not certain I've ever grown up.  Later, after my mother passed and my father downsized, I/we had the honor of purchasing it from him.  Several post wiffleball years, a tree sprung up between where the pitcher stood and first base.  A perfect place to temporarily chain our little yap dog up to get some air, sun, pee, poop, enjoy the outdoors.

Before you call PETA, he always had water, his chain was long, very long and ne'er a raindrop fell on his head.  We didn't leave him out there very long.  I've told this story before, but if you've fallen asleep reading here before, you'll recognize I do that.

Magic was the yap dog's name.  A good dog, hated the mailman.  The mailman in this case, Ron Schoeller.  RIP, the wonderful, happy, always fun Ron Schoeller.  Magic's chain was probably twenty foot long, so it allowed him to carve a pretty good circular grass-kill around the tree.

Daily, Ron would walk up to deliver the mail, then trudge over to the Flanigan's house.  To do so, he had to maneuver around Magic.  Magic would flip out literally by the time he saw Ron 6 houses away.  As Ron approached, louder and louder.  By the time he dropped our mail in the box, he was frothing, I swear he was sweating, he would show his fangs, and the fingernail on chalkboard yap grew louder and louder - Ron knew exactly how close he could get - and try like he may, Magic, with his 15 pound body, never had what it took to snap the chain holding him from a Schoeller lunch.

This went on day, after day, after day, year after year.  Several years later, after gasping at quite a few OH CRAP gas bills, electric bills for our turn of the century leaky 3 story house - we moved.  Bought a nifty house from my sister inlaw. I guess that's what family does, buy from family.

Anyways, Ron was our slowpitch softball manager.  He was very serious about it, but we (and he) never let the smile lift fall from his face.  One hot summer day, we, 20+ players, wives, girlfriends, kids, gathered after a softball game on our back deck.  It was a pretty big back deck.  Mr. Magic hated, HATED, the postal uniform, but he was cool with softball uni's, kids, etc, so he got free reign of our fenced backyard.

We were grillin, chillin, conversing here, there, everywhere.  An hour in, Ronnie comes up to me with a big ole smile on his face, points at Magic and says "Hey, Vic, he doesn't recognize me."  Oh katy bar the door. Magic KNEW Ron's voice. the yapping, sweating, fang-showing, fingernail on the blackboard barking began and it took two of us to tackle, keep the 15 pound dog from devouring one of Ronnie's calves.  Fun, tis a memory I will never forget.  All due to a tree.

Tree in Miller's yard.  An easy climb.  We did that.  One night around dusk, we (several Flanigans and I) took our mom's plastic soap bottles, filled 'em with water and climbed the trees.  Yes, we'd spray cars as they drove by.  Some slowed down, but never stopped, UNTIL....  UNTIL.. we didn't notice the car was a convertible, we didn't notice it contained a 6'5", 325 lb Kansas City Chief - so we sprayed away.  SKREEECH. Uh oh.  I wish Coach White woulda had the stopwatch on us, 'cause I bet no one, NO ONE, ran the 600 yard dash as fast as we did that night - a close call, ultimately snuck in the back door, counted our limbs, whew, a lesson learned

As a child, sometimes we timed it so we got to ride into the Country with our grandfather to chop down the annual cedar tree for Christmas.  Yum, the smell, yum, the family time, yum, the wide eyes of a 9 year old.  All because of a tree.

Fall, a favorite time.  Way back in the day, as 16-17 year olds, the nightly trek was from the KuKu to the Square, and back, and again, and again and again - certain we never noticed a tree.  Now that wrinkles are here, that drive has been adjusted to - the old high school, to William Jewell, and maybe again and again.  Dang the colors. Dang the stately trees.  It ain't the Catskills, the Great Smokeys or even the Ozark Mountains - but the trees here - at the perfect time of year - are spectacular and breath taking.

Oh, a tree runs though it. The small tree that held Magic back is long since gone.  Instead, right where the shortstop stood is now a 60 foot, I kid you not, a 60 foot tree. Between third base and home, there's a 40' tree.  Wiffle ball, life, kids climbing, Christmas, fall foliage - a tree runs though it.

That's about all I got on trees, woodn't you know it, not fake news but pulp fiction....

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

Happy day, 
Love, Victurd.