My favorite poem of all time is “Trees” by Joyce Kilmer. Mrs. Williams had us memorize it in 4th grade and I can still recite most of it even today. But at the time, I remember thinking that when God made trees, he was really thinking about kids.
When I was a boy, one of my favorite pastimes was climbing trees and using my imagination. Billy Richmond and I climbed a huge oak tree in the woods behind out house. We used it as our B29 bomber when we imagined ourselves as air force pilots flying a mission over Germany. Billy usually played the pilot, while I was bombardier.
“Billy, I think we’re hit.”
“Then let’s put her down in that field below.”
So we landed our imaginary bomber, and then fought the Nazis in hand to hand combat until the last one was killed. Then, miraculously, our plane was restored and we were off again on another mission.
Trees could also be transformed into perches for would-be Plato’s and Aristotle’s.
“Freddie (my best friend in 5th grade), how many stars do you think there really are?”
“I dunno, maybe 10,000. They’re hard to count.”
Trees were also good places to sneak a quick snack.
A neighbor across the road had a damson tree, and when they ripened, we feasted. It’s a wonder we didn’t develop damson allergies from over-dosing, because we did.
I also remember one particular apple tree in the Williams’ yard that yielded hard, crunchy white apples that were as sweet as pears. They each had little black spots on the skins, kinds like apple bark, but that didn’t stop us. We ate the apples, spit out the dark spots and then ate more.
My college roommate had an orange tree in his yard back in Florida. I remember picking an orange one day and thinking I had never had anything so good in my entire life. A fresh orange, right off a tree, is simply unbeatable.
So trees always played an important part in my life, as I’m sure they did in the lives of many Boomers. Just for the record, my favorite poem is printed below.
Trees
By Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.