Standing Guard

BY CHRIS WEST

There's a stand of pine trees not far from our house, along an old country road that's been our shortcut to town for 20 some years. They were planted as a windbreak for a classic white farmhouse, and they've stood guard throughout most of our marriage, growing in threes along the north and west sides of the house, framing and protecting it in a picture-perfect setting.

I love those pine trees. Even though I don't know the family who lives there, and they'd be surprised to find they'd been written about, their pine trees hold a place in my heart. That April in 1977, the year they were planted, was the first time I drove that way, on a visit to the doctor to learn I was pregnant with our first baby.

Through the years, we've made a lot of trips to the doctor by that route. We've watched the trees grow from seedlings into sturdy little treelets, then on through awkward adolescence, shooting out new growth in wild spits and starts, then slowly catching up the rest of themselves, until now they've grown into the beauty and grace of youthful maturity.

I'm not sure when, but one spring a few years ago a couple of daffodils emerged along the roadside, their sunny appearance a cheerful contrast to the deep pine green behind them. Each year since they've multiplied, scattered out in front of the pines, sprouting in bunches here and there as if tossed from the sky, until now there are hundreds. The effect is stunning, car-stopping beauty, and it's a not-so-subtle reminder that sometimes still, nature and man can work together to create a work of art that is respectful of both parties.

It's also a not-so-subtle reminder that the years are flying by, and my babies, like the pine trees, are making that change from adolescence to early maturity. The wild spits and starts are slowly filling in, and the gaps are closing, softly, gently, one small branch at a time.

The trees now stand full and proud, the original arrangement as a windbreak blurred by the spreading and filling together, the occasional gap from the loss of a tree, and by the younger trees, added over the years to soften the lines and naturalize the setting.

To everyone else, it's a lovely harbinger of spring, those yellow bursts of color against a backdrop of green. But to me, it's something more. It's my past, present, and future, all embodied in that one little stand of pine trees. It's my marriage, my children, and my grandchildren to come. It's a story.

It's my story.

Chris West is free-lance writer and second grade teacher in Carlinville.

April 2000    7