Arbor Day, 2023

The day is gray and rainy and I am nervous about finding the place I’m supposed to report for tree-planting duty. I volunteered to help with the Spring Garden Market at our Burlington County Agriculture Center and am assigned to a demonstration tree planting. I come outwardly prepared with my Bean Boots, rain jacket, work gloves, and one of Dan’s shovels. However, inside, this farmer’s wife suffers from gardener imposter syndrome and fears someone will ask questions for which she has no answer.

I wander through the Ag Center, wind up in the farmhouse, and finally find Mike, from the extension office, out on the porch where the master gardeners have a help desk and are giving away plants. He gives me the rundown of my responsibilities. We walk over to one side of the farmhouse, where enormous holes are already prepared. Mike recommends I remove even more dirt. I struggle around old roots that he pops out with a quick trick using the top of his shovel. He’s done this a few times.

Another gardener makes her way toward us and I am introduced to Kelly. We wait for an extra fifteen minutes, but no one shows up to watch, so we proceed to plant an American Beautyberry close to the house.

We have time to kill until the next “demonstration,” so we wait out of the rain on the porch. I attempt to get out of the way of the confident gardeners and find a comfortable rocking chair. The conversations about when to put the tomatoes out, and which plants are deer resistant fade into the background as I keep staring at the amazing spread of a tree in the front yard. Just looking at it grants peace, like God’s whispering, “Sit here and enjoy this beautiful thing I made.”

She is an enormous tree, perfectly shaped, and her leaves are a striking plum color in the early spring. Her canopy invites poets to sit beneath and ponder thoughts of depth and beauty. Wordless, I can’t stop looking at her.

Kelly joins me and I confess, “I can’t stop staring at this beautiful tree!” She agrees we are looking at something special, and asks if I know what kind of tree it is. “Let’s go look,” I point to the marker clearly visible from here.

As we enter the umbrella of shade, the busy world around us disappears. A hush that speaks of both childhood and old age slides up to us ready for a hug. “European Beech,” we read and stand in awe under her enormous branches. “I would have loved to climb this as a kid!” Her lowest boughs are the perfect height for me to “skin the cat,” and hop on up.

“I could climb her right now!” Kelly laughs in agreement, and we stand there appreciating how old this tree must be to have such a large trunk.

I wonder, who planted this tree and departed Earth without getting to tell us grateful beneficiaries about the afternoon they dug a hole just the right size and lowered pot-bound roots into fresh earth? Might they have questioned if their efforts would thrive? Kelly and I breathe in the oxygen and history of our new friend until a glance at the time makes us resume our gardening duties.

Our next planting is a Witchhazel tree. I learn the Native Americans used its bark for various medicinal purposes. “It’s going to have a beautiful show of yellow flowers this fall,” Mike explains. This tree we plant near the bee box, whose occupants will appreciate fall food.

As I smooth the soil back with the flat side of a rake, I am pleased with this skill I acquired on the farm. I spend a moment remembering my husband’s grandfather whose advice comforts me when I doubt my ability to keep other beings alive. “Children and plants—they just need plenty of sunshine, fresh air, some water, and a good space to grow.”

With my current empty nest, and being pleased with the results of the people planting my husband and I did, I guess I’ve turned my efforts to raising plants. I keep checking my thumb for signs of color change, but the hopeful side of me thinks, maybe in 100 years some new gardener will admire one of the trees we planted today and wonder who had courage to dig a hole and hope their efforts thrived.

For you: Where are you on the gardening spectrum: not one at all? fulfilling a need to replace your people growing efforts? or a lifelong green thumb?