Family Trees

I see men as trees, walking.

(Mark 8:24.)

FAMILY TREES

         The road ahead of me was dangerous; a sleet storm outside mirrored my emotional life inside--cold, dreary and destructive. While the wipers sluggishly scraped ice off the windshield, I fought the Corvette around the ice-covered curves of a two-lane country road from San Antonio into the Texas Hill Country.

         I was driving to the old family homestead for my grandfather's death vigil. I was late, as usual, and cursed myself for not starting earlier. Besides, the storm made the trip longer--gave me too much time to think about how much my Granddad meant to my life--and how I'd disappointed him.

         When the weathered sign at the entrance to the farm finally appeared through the sleet, I slowed the Corvette down to a crawl. The sign was faded, but still legible, just as Granddad lettered it so painstakingly a half-century ago:  

                             Baummann Family Orchards
                             Peach Creek, Texas
                             Pick Your Own Way.

         I made the turn carefully and steered across the ice-covered cattle guard into the rutted caliche road leading to the house. The car slipped and slid, fish-tailing from side- to-side in the clayey-mud. Fresh tire tracks showed that lots of family and friends had come to see the old man off.

         Driving up the rutted road, I noticed the peach trees on either side had begun to bud early because of the warm and early spring. Now, with an unseasonably late Norther dropping temperatures into the teens, we were in danger of losing not just the crop, but the trees as well.

         When I finally arrived at the part of the orchard nearest the house, a compulsion I couldn't ignore made me look at mytree to see how it was doing.

         Granddad planted a tree for every member of the family on the day of their birth. It was a harmless ritual, an almost animistic belief that probably went back to some ancestor wandering among the oaks of the Teeterboro Forest in Germany. After all, Baummann means 'tree man." His little pagan ritual didn't square with his Lutheran upbringing, but the old man's life revolved around his trees, and he took it very seriously.

         Granddad believed he and the Almighty had a covenant between them. God provided the earth, the weather, and the trees and then Granddad worked his magic on the orchards that sustained the family. Somehow the link between God and the family was your tree, your family tree if you will.

         "Well, Sir," he'd say, after tamping the soil around the new shoot with his hands and looking up to the sky and his God, "We'll see how this one grows."  


         It always seemed a little crazy to me after I grew up--but nevertheless, I stopped the car, rolled down the window and stared at my tree. It didn't look too good. Ice was beginning to bow down the branches. To a trained eye, the corona of flashy green leaves on the outside couldn't hide the fact that the main branches needed pruning. Or that it'd been left without any loving care for some time.

         Granddad made you take care of your tree as you grew up. Schooling, marriages, or career moves to distant cities made no difference to Granddad--you were still responsible for your tree. I felt a sudden pang of guilt, followed by regret and panic. Then I shivered and cursed myself for being a fool. Even after all these years, I was still dominated by the suggestion put into my mind by Granddad that my life was ruled by that damn tree.  

         I took a quick look at my ex-wife Lee Ann's tree with my son Jason's close beside it. They looked like they were in good shape, able to handle the ice for awhile. The old man always left enough space by a boy's tree for another tree to be planted next to it. Whenever a wife was brought into the family, he'd plant another tree nearby. Then, when it blossomed, he'd cross-graft between the two trees and grow some new shoots for their children's trees.

         "You got to bring new strength into the family and into the trees," Granddad would tell me, while carefully slitting the bark and introducing the new graft. "Marriage is just grafting a different bloodline into the family like we graft one variety onto another, trying to get a better yield with stronger characteristics."

         My tree was next to my mother's. But an empty space separated us from my grandparent's trees, a space that had belonged to my father's tree, killed by lightning while he was away in Viet Nam. When it happened, Granddad had been positive it was an omen, a message from God.

         Sure enough, my father never returned from a nameless battlefield on an unimportant hill in Viet Nam.

         I was too young to remember the stormy day when Granddad finally got the official news of my father's death, news he'd been expecting. But, lying on a pallet on the porch on hot summer nights, listening to the comforting drone of the old folks as I drifted off to sleep, I learned the story that became a legend in the Texas Hill Country.

         After the Marine notification party left, my granddad went out to the barn and hitched up his mule team. Then he ripped the lightning-scarred stump out of the orchard with tears in his eyes and screamed into the lowering clouds of a summer thunderhead:

         "And the leaves of the tree were for the healing of nations, it says in your Good Book." He shook his fist at the sky. "Are you satisfied now? You took the best of my trees and my eldest son. Are you going to take any more of them for this useless war? Damn you!"

         The heavens grumbled and lightning flashed, but apparently some bargain was struck between God and Granddad. For no other Baummann died in the war, nor for years afterward, as God kept His part of the bargain.

         Until now, I thought. I shivered and rolled up the window. Must've been the cold and sleet, I reasoned.

         My reverie broken, I started the car and drove on past the family trees into the stable yard. Sure enough, several cars had preceded me, including Uncle Pete and Aunt Kate's old Ford, cousin Mavis's pickup, and the Chevy Blazer of my sister Connie's husband, Roger. There were some others I couldn't identify, but one I couldn't miss--Lee Ann's Honda--because I still made the payments.

         I hoped her presence wouldn't mean trouble--and then felt guilty at the thought. Lee Ann was a good mother, and she knew not to tear into me in front of Jason or the family, especially at a time like this.

         I got out of the car and looked at the sky. Somebody needed to put out the smoke pots or we were going to lose the whole damn orchard. I ran to the shelter of the porch to get out of the sleet, knocked perfunctorily at the door and walked on in. I was entitled. I was family. I was home.

         Inside the parlor, there must have been ten or fifteen adults and at least half that many children. Most of the women were sitting on the overstuffed chairs and sofas while the men stood uncomfortably, as if they couldn't find a spot to sit. Kids were running up and down the hall or playing on the floor. The buzz of conversation continued as I stood in the foyer, shedding my parka, waiting for someone to notice me.

         My grandmother, Nonnie, spotted me first and came rushing over. She buried her head in my shoulder and gave me a long, hard hug. I awkwardly patted her back. I wasn't used to comforting Nonnie. All my life it had been the other way around.

         "Branch, you're here! You're finally here. I told them you'd come tonight, no matter what the weather was. See, Connie, Branch is here."  Nonnie looked up at me as if I was the Savior, come to raise Lazarus from the dead.

         " Nonnie, how's Granddad doing," I asked as I looked over the assembled throng, nodding to them all. They nodded back or murmured greetings, not wanting to interrupt my moment with Nonnie.

         "He's been waiting for you. Says he won't die until he has a chance to tell you goodbye. You always were his favorite, you know," and her voice broke down into a strangled sob.  

         "Yes, I know, Nonnie," I said gently, trying to comfort her as once she had comforted me in a moment of loss.

         Memories of my childhood flooded in on me as I held my grandmother. After my father died, my mother moved me in with Granddad and Nonnie for a while. She continued to work in San Antonio for the Army after the war ended, so Granddad and Nonnie really raised me there on the Hill Country spread. In some ways I guess I began to take my father's place for Granddad. He'd always wanted me to stay on and take over the orchards.

         I looked over to the fireplace mantle. The plaque, a quotation from Genesis engraved by my grandfather when he established the Baummann orchards was still there.

                   And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow
                   every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food;
                   the tree of life also in the midst of the garden,
                   and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

         He really believed the trees spoke to him about Life and the way we were supposed to grow and live. I remembered Granddad introducing me, so to speak, to my tree for the first time when I was about four years old.

         "Branch, this is your tree. I planted this little tree on the day you were born. See, you're just about the same size. You'll grow up together," he said.

         "My tree!" I laughed and toddled over to it. I probably would have pulled it out of the ground if he hadn't stopped me. Maybe it would have been for the best.

                   Some of my best memories are of Granddad taking me to work with him in the orchards. And always, before the regular work of the day began, there would be a few moments among the family trees, and a few words from Granddad about how our lives and those of the trees were intertwined.

          "Ya see, Branch, there's a place in the Bible where the Lord heals a blind man and the first thing the man says is: I see men as trees, walking."

         He paused for a moment while he filled and lit his old briar pipe, then continued,
"I believe the Lord meant us to see something in that story. Just like trees, people got their roots. Their roots are their ancestors, going back into history all the way to Adam and Eve. Then when they start a family they branch out and are fruitful, just like our trees here, and the fruit falls into the soil and makes new trees, on and on for eternity. Can you understand that?"

         He smiled down at my earnest young face.

         "Uh huh," I replied, knowing that was the answer my Granddad wanted, but not really understanding his meaning.

         "Sure you do," he laughed with a great roaring laugh. "Well, even if you don't understand it now, one day you will when you grow up to be a man."

         Then he picked me up, put me onto his brawny shoulder and walked into the leafy-green ordered rows of his orchard.  

         When I got older, old enough to understand the difference between right and wrong, the old man would give me his take on morality and illustrate it with images and phrases based on his beloved trees.

         I usually got one whenever I tried to give him an excuse for some transgression, or the famous line, "But Bobby Joe Marshall's parents let him do it."

         Granddad didn't think much of Bobby Joe. His family were cedar choppers, gypsy day-laborers generally regarded as the lowest form of white trash in Texas. Granddad was sure that Bobby Joe would come to a bad end...and take me with him.

          "As the twig is bent, so grows the tree," he'd say. And that would be the end of that discussion. Granddad was serious about raising kids right. It wasn't his fault I hadn't turned out the way he wanted.

         Nonnie's voice abruptly ended my reverie. "You'd better go in to see him now."

         "You want to come in with me?" I asked hopefully. I didn't want to face the old man by myself for the last time.

         "No, you go ahead. He wants to see you alone."

         I wordlessly passed Nonnie off to Aunt Kate, kissed Connie hello, shook hands with about a dozen relatives and old friends without really registering their comments, and walked out of the parlor down the hall toward my Granddad's bedroom.

         I met Lee Ann coming down the hall, still looking like a candidate for Ms. America. Since I'd seen her car, I'd prepared myself mentally, but it's always awkward to meet up with someone who was part of your life for years--and then suddenly wasn't. And since the breakup was my fault, I always felt guilty in the bargain.

         "Hi," I said. "I didn't know you'd be here."

         "Nonnie called and said his time was close. He wanted Jason and me to come say goodbye."

         "I'm glad you came. Where's Jason."

         "He's playing video games with the bigger kids. We managed to corral them on the back porch. Luckily, your folks still had it set up with storm screens for winter since Granddad was so sick..." As if she suddenly realized what she'd said, she stopped and broke into tears.

         I patted her ineffectually on the shoulder and said, "It's all right. I know what you meant." I tried to change the subject. "How is Jason taking all this...this." I raised my arms in a gesture that took in this gathering of the clan for the passing of our patriarch.

         "He's OK with it, maybe better than me. He and Granddad had a nice long talk, man-to-man, and he came out of it and told me he was going to take care of me from now on." She sniffled and then gave a little heart-breaking smile. "Do you want to see Jason now?"

         "I better see Granddad first," I said.

         I'd been avoiding my duty, but now it was time to act like a man. Past time, I thought as I walked down the hall and paused at the door.

         Looking at my Granddad's old brass four-poster, I could see all the raw-boned length of him, but the cancer had simply eaten the man away from his bones. He looked skeletal, the sheet draped and looped into every niche and cranny between his bones. It hit me hard.

          His breath came hard, a rasping rale I heard across the room, as his heart and lungs labored to live. His eyes were closed, and I wondered if he was asleep. Without opening his eyes, his irritated voice rapped out a command.

         "Well, come in and sit by me--now that you're here."

         I shook my head, smiling. No quarter or silly sentimentalism from my Granddad, even on his deathbed.I walked over to the bed and stood staring down.

         "How are you, Opa?"

         Whenever we were alone, I called him Opa instead of Granddad. It was our secret word that bound us together. Nonnie wasn't born and bred a Hill Country German. She didn't think children should grow up using German for their first language. But my granddad had hedged a little and taught me some of his mother tongue.

         "Hell, Boy, I'm dying. I've just been waiting until you got here." He paused. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound so rough. I'm glad you're here." His voice had a raspy quality like a rough-barked Hill Country live oak might have if it could talk.

         "I'm sorry I haven't come home to visit more often lately, Opa."

         Unspoken between us was the estrangement that had colored our relationship for the last few years. Opa hadn't approved of my friends or my life style--although he would never have used those words.

         "Doesn't matter. You're here now. Sit down, sit down."

         It was a dispensation. He finally opened his eyes and looked at me with the same keen blue eyes that had always been able to see through my youthful lies--and my adult indiscretions.

         "I wish. . . ." I couldnt finish the sentence. There was nothing I could say--or too much to say in a million years.

         "I know, Boy." He paused. "Branch, give me a sip of that water."

         I got the water and held the glass up to his lips. I had to help him raise his head. When I cradled his shoulders, I realized how fragile he'd become. He choked a little and waved me away with a hand that was so frail and translucent I saw a spiderweb of blue veins. I remembered the gnarled, weather-beaten, strong hands of a thousand memories and fought down the tears. I didn't want to seem weak in his eyes.

         "You still livin' with those wild girls?"

         "No, Sir."

         "Good! I never heard of such foolishness!" he snorted then looked up sharply and snapped. "You ever see or talk to Lee Ann?"

         "Just when I pick Jason up for the weekend. About half the time she makes up some excuse and won't let me see him. I saw her a minute ago."

         "She's a good woman, Branch. Mite high-strung when she's mad--but then I guess you know that." His eyes pierced me. "Course, you gave her reason to be."

         "I know."

         It was another one of our old arguments. But I wasn't going to pursue it when Opa was on his deathbed.

         "Did you know she brings Jason out here every month?"

         "No, I didn't."

         "Comes out and tends to her tree just like she was still in the family." He sighed. "I haven't been able to do much lately." He coughed hard, and then his face brightened as he said, "She's teaching Jason all about his tree."

         "I expect you like that." I laughed.

         "Damn right." He grinned back. "Jason needs to know about his family tree. It'll help him grow up with character...especially if his daddy takes a hold of his own life. The tree is known..."

         "...by its fruit," I finished for him. "You've drilled that into me that often enough over the years," I said, smiling.

         "Well, don't you forget it when I'm gone. That boy needs a father, not some yuppie goin' through a mid-life crisis or whatever the Hell they call it. Plain foolishness if you ask me."

         "Yes, Sir."

         He appeared to weaken, subsided visibly into his pillow. Talking was taking what little reserves of strength he had left.

         "You want me to get Nonnie?"

         He shook his head and gestured weakly that he needed a moment. I waited, quietly thinking back on all the years. About all the time spent with this good man: Christmases, birthdays, pruning and harvests, working in our orchards and around my tree.

         "I'm dependin' on you to take care of the orchard and the family trees." He spoke without opening his eyes.

         "Opa, we've been over that a thousand times. Don't bring it up now, here, like this. It isn't fair."

         "Fair? Of course it's fair. You doin' anything more important? You think you can't write books out here in the peace and quiet of God's country?"

         "But the orchard belongs to Nonnie."

         "Belongs to her--but she can't run it. It's too much for her, so it's your responsibility. Don't disappoint me, Branch!"

         There was a note of desperation in his voice that could not be denied. Hating myself for saying it, knowing that the decision had been coming all along, I gave in.

         "All right, Opa. I'll work something out."

         "And fix things up with Lee Ann too, you hear."

         "I'll try. I promise."

         A peaceful smile came over his features. He closed his eyes and softly repeated his favorite lines from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar:

                   He hath left you all his walks
                   His private arbors, and new planted orchards...
                   He hath left them to you,
                   And to your heirs forever--common pleasures,
                   To walk abroad and recreate yourselves.

         I found myself repeating the words with him like some kind of ritual.

         I looked away for a moment out the window when a blast of wind shook the house as though the storm would rock its foundations. I noticed the sleet building up on the orchard. We needed to set out the smoke pots right away if we were going to save the trees, and I mentally calculated the directions I'd have to give. It was going to take the whole family working together. The whole family working together...

         I looked back to tell OPA that I finally understood what he'd spent a lifetime trying to teach me; And I really did, for the first time.

         But he was gone.

         I went to tell Nonnie and the rest of the family. Then I picked up my jacket and started out the door to the barn. Lee Ann saw me and called out.

         "Where are you going, Branch? That storm outside is enough to freeze you to death."

         "Send Jason out to the barn to help me. We've got some work to do to save our trees...," I hollered, and under my breath I added, "...and my life."

         I went out onto the porch. The sleet was thinning. I looked down the hill at the trees that held so many lessons about life for my Opa. Then I realized it hadn't been important for me to tell him that at long last I understood about his beloved trees. He knew. I felt his presence all around me.  

         "Well, Opa...," I said, as a ray of light broke through the clouds onto the family trees, "...I think we may weather this storm after all. Like Mrs Browning said, "Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees."