Memories of the Old Tree

The scraggly old cedar tree stands on the hill by the side of the road. It has stood there since my childhood, probably wondering if each new land owner would push it down and drag it away.

In its younger days, it stood over the new soddy that the young farmer had struggled to cut out of the prairie. Later, as the family grew and prospered, a proud frame house replaced the soddy, which was then used for the chickens for awhile until the snow and rains made it collapse. The tree was strong and straight then, like the young couple. It provided some shade for the children that played in the summer dust around its roots. They could climb up among the branches and have a secret hiding place, a place to plan childish pranks and to dream among dreams.

There is only a trace left of its family that once lived there. Over this way are a few weathered chunks of old limestone rock that once formed the foundations of the house and barns. The rocks came from the banks of the creek running by.

There was a storm cellar nearby. The family would rush down its steps during summer wind storms, for its protection in case a Kansas tornado developed. Black billowing clouds could spin around and drop a terrifying twisting monster in seconds. In ordinary times, the cellar was just a cool place to store the canned vegetables and fruit and the potatoes and pumpkins from the garden. The grove of wild plums beside the tree, and the currant bushes with little yellow blossoms provided jelly to store in the cellar also. Now the cellar’s roof has fallen in, tired of holding up the weight of the mound of direct above it. Only a depression marks its place.

There are many such homesteads in our vicinity, marked with only an ancient tree, but they hold a lifetime of memories of those early brave pioneers who now rest in our cemeteries down the road.

Memories of the Old Tree