As I kid I was known as “horse crazy.” My parents swear that my first word was not mama or dada, it was horse.
Then, as I grew physically, my crazy factor also grew to encompass all animals. There really wasn’t a critter that couldn’t tug at my heartstrings and make me want to give it a hug and a happy home. This infatuation earned me the broader title of “animal crazy.”
I have to say I worked diligently to deserve that title. Once, when I was about eight, I sat for hours on end babysitting a mole who had been washed out of his burrow in heavy rains. I would not abandon my vigil despite repeated assurances from my parents that the pesky…um…adorable animal was fine, and that he would soon move along to build a new home. I remained there until darkness and parental insistence required me to head reluctantly inside for the evening.
The next morning I rushed out to check on my patient and found that he had indeed made a miraculous recovery overnight because he was nowhere to be found. And trust me, I looked.
In decades-later hindsight, I believe Mr. Mole may have actually been quite dead (What? You knew that right away?). Yes, I may have sat for HOURS watching over a deceased mole. I can just imagine my parents not having the nerve to break the news to me for it most assuredly would have resulted in tears and the need for a burial. With flowers.
Much as Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy were able to slip in and out of the house undetected, the Mole Fairy was able to come whisk the body away without young eyes bearing witness. Bravo, Mom and Dad.
As I have matured (though the eight-year-old caring for a dead mole is still alive and well in my soul), my tendency toward crazy has not slacked off even one tiny bit. In fact, now that I’m adult-ish and free of parental “my-house-my-rules” constraints, my craziness has flourished with a farm full of animals and a house quite literally full of dogs. And so I wear my Crazy Dog Lady, Crazy Pig Lady, Crazy Donkey Lady, Crazy Horse Lady, and Crazy Chicken Lady sashes simultaneously and with great pride.
But…It actually doesn’t stop there.
You see, I might (do) believe that maybe (absolutely) plants and various inanimate objects have feelings. There’s actually a name for this “disorder” that pops up in Google: Animistic Thinking. It’s defined as a mode of thought in which inanimate objects are imagined to have life and mental processes. Take the words “are imagined to” out of that sentence and BINGO. You’ve nailed it.
Let’s be honest here…I still have my teddy bear from childhood and though he is stored away on a closet shelf, I still see to it that he is always comfortable and has other stuffed animals to keep him company.
I have a hard time breaking it to my faithful old cars when I am trading them in for a newer model. I also pretty much refuse to have houseplants because I did not inherit my father’s green thumb and I’m terrified I will cause them pain and suffering.
Yup. This is my brand of crazy.
So this brings us forward to a point about a month ago when, on my drive home to the farm, I passed by what had once been a wooded parcel of land to see that it had been completely bulldozed…you know, in the name of progress. Hundreds of trees were shoved around in cluttered piles like a giant game of Pick-Up Sticks (Yes, kids used to be entertained by repeatedly picking sticks out of a pile only to re-jumble them and start over. No batteries or power cord required.).
It was heartbreaking to see these once sturdy trees, still sporting their vibrant spring leaves, uprooted, discarded, and left to die. I had to speed by as quickly as possible as I was certain I could hear them screaming. Or maybe I was the one screaming. Hard to say.
I passed by the trees daily as I drove back and forth to work. After a few days with trunks splintered and roots exposed, the leaves on the trees withered and died. It soon became a field filled with endless bonfire potential…with the exception of one determined tree.
There, in the middle of all of that soon-to-be firewood, one tree, despite its very horizontal predicament, was still in full bloom. This one tree was desperately hanging on to life. A soft green oasis in a branch-filled sea of despair.
And that darn tree was haunting me.
Every time I drove within a mile of the tree I came to know as Twiggy, I could hear her calling to me. “Nancy…save me! Naaaaaancy! Can you see me? Help me!”
And so, as any logical person trying to save a tree on the side of the highway would do, I posted a question on Facebook.
“How do I save a tree that has been bulldozed and have it transplanted to my front yard?”
Here’s the cool part, I apparently have a lot of similarly crazy friends! Because I got answers. I got offers for help. I found that other people were almost as disturbed by this tree’s bleak destiny as I was.
So this past Sunday, bolstered by the support of my kindred, tree-hugging friends, I decided to pull off the highway to visit my tree, offer it some reassuring words, and see if there truly was any way to save it.
Yes, I really did.
As I picked my way through the mud and “fallen soldiers,” I realized my tree was no little sapling. In fact, my tree fell into the category of “darn big.” (That is a technical forestry term. Trust me.) And then I saw the nail in Twiggy’s coffin–a shattered, splintered trunk.
Even if somehow I had raised the funds to hire a fancy tree relocation service, Twiggy was only hanging on by a toothpick. I walked over to pat the doomed tree and offer a few words of comfort. It was then, as I was standing there by the busy highway, talking to the dying tree (What?), that I saw them. Scattered in the mud around the base of the tree’s trunk were teensy seedlings. A quick comparison of leaves told me that these lime-colored minions were actually Twiggy’s offspring.
Hooray! I might not be able to spare the mighty tree from certain death, but I could certainly rescue a couple of her tiny babies.
Carefully I dug around the base of two of the treeletes, extracting their roots and a good little chunk of soil to protect them. Then I speed-limit-raced to get them home because “…but officer, I have to rush home, I have babies in the car that need to get into potting soil right away or they will surely die…” not only wouldn’t get me out of a speeding ticket, but just might land me in a padded cell.
I am proud to report that I did get the baby trees safely home. They are now carefully potted and residing on my front porch where I tend to them multiple times a day and move them in and out of the shade to allow them just the right amount of sunlight. Whatever that amount is. I’m totally winging it here.
So now I have a new title. I’m the Crazy Tree Lady. And don’t think for a second that my don’t-have-Dad’s-green-thumb phobia hasn’t surfaced to poke at me as I care for my two leafy charges. This is a weighty responsibility, but I’m going to do my best.
Dammit, these little trees WILL live. They WILL grow tall and strong. One fine day they WILL have sturdy branches like their mommy did. And, someday, my dogs WILL pee on their trunks.
(Yeah. I know. Crazy.)