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June 2006 
Simplify
Posted on Apr 25th, 2006
by 
jusme
jusme
I stood in my yard two days before this week's vacation, making a mental list of chores for after I completed my four papers for a masters' class I just took on East Asia. Two tall fir trees tower above the puny beech and birch trees on our land, obstructing no small portion of my mountain view. They must be dropped, I thought to myself, hands on hips, my mind already hearing the sound of my Husqvarna whining and slicing through the base of the offending conifers.
Then, later that day, my oldest son and I went for a hike, only 15 minutes or so, but that's a hike for a six-year-old, especially when he's leading the way and Daddy puts him in the woods and says "Get us home."
He'd take steps, look over his shoulder and say "This way?" I'd only shrug and smile. He was unsure of himself, but smiled the entire time at the trust Daddy put in him. Eventually he found landmarks he remembered and found his way to our yard, but not before taking us to the base of not just one, but both of those fir trees. They'd existed so long, shaded the ground so efficiently, that nothing grew beneath them. It was but a bed of soft needles and forest detritus.
My son stopped, looked at the first clearing and said "We should make a fort here."
I agreed, thinking it was the perfect spot for a fort - tree fort or otherwise - until we arrived at the second tree I had considered dropping. This was even more perfect, proving perfection is more a combination of state of mind and time than fact. My son asked if we could make a fort there, too. "Sure," I replied.
Moments later we were home, the second tree a landmark we'd visited before last year's first snowfall. As we trekked through the woods, pushing our way through brush and limbs to emerge in our lawn, I looked over my shoulder, seeing more trees than mountains.
That's the way it's supposed to stay, I assume. I know a sign when I see it. As we crossed the threshold and entered the house, father and son, I erased the first item on my list, and replaced it with a promise to a son. Simplify, indeed.
Then, later that day, my oldest son and I went for a hike, only 15 minutes or so, but that's a hike for a six-year-old, especially when he's leading the way and Daddy puts him in the woods and says "Get us home."
He'd take steps, look over his shoulder and say "This way?" I'd only shrug and smile. He was unsure of himself, but smiled the entire time at the trust Daddy put in him. Eventually he found landmarks he remembered and found his way to our yard, but not before taking us to the base of not just one, but both of those fir trees. They'd existed so long, shaded the ground so efficiently, that nothing grew beneath them. It was but a bed of soft needles and forest detritus.
My son stopped, looked at the first clearing and said "We should make a fort here."
I agreed, thinking it was the perfect spot for a fort - tree fort or otherwise - until we arrived at the second tree I had considered dropping. This was even more perfect, proving perfection is more a combination of state of mind and time than fact. My son asked if we could make a fort there, too. "Sure," I replied.
Moments later we were home, the second tree a landmark we'd visited before last year's first snowfall. As we trekked through the woods, pushing our way through brush and limbs to emerge in our lawn, I looked over my shoulder, seeing more trees than mountains.
That's the way it's supposed to stay, I assume. I know a sign when I see it. As we crossed the threshold and entered the house, father and son, I erased the first item on my list, and replaced it with a promise to a son. Simplify, indeed.
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