Keep Looking Up

I would have missed this wonderful magnolia blossom if I hadn’t looked up. Day lilies of gold and burgundy, blue and oak hydrangea, Nile lilies the color of the sky, and a red firecracker plant displaying its brand new explosive blooms just in time for Memorial Day–these I can easily see as I walk. But to see the magnolia blossoms I have to look up, sometimes way up.

The blossom reminds me of an elegant porcelain chandelier, especially with sunlight sifting in. Other blooms high in the trees make me think of brides awaiting their magical moment. I think, too, of “Steel Magnolias,” the Dolly Parton movie in which beautiful women show what they’re made of when tragedy hits.

What else would I miss if I didn’t look up?

I’d miss amazing sky scapes. Sometimes the sky is so beautiful I can only say, “Thank you, thank you, Lord.” Whether drifting, feathery clouds changing by the minute, or a wide-open expanse of deep blue, or a sunset-stained sky, or one pricked with stars, all are incredibly marvelous. And all that, not to even mention the moon as a thin sliver or as a full fat disc.

What about birds’ nests? Yesterday I looked up to see a pair of birds–mockingbirds, I think–flying in and out of a thick jasmine vine climbing our mailbox pine. I saw bits of debris in their beaks and knew it was nest building time for them. More than once I have observed mourning doves building a sprangly nest on the flat of a wide palm branch. Better than that view was the one of babies walking up and down that branch before they flew. It was as if the branch were their neighborhood playground.

Though I do love a quiet sky, I am also fascinated with planes, high flying jets, small planes from our own Grady County airport, and an occasional helicopter. Sometimes I wouldn’t know a jet was flying over unless I looked up to see the stream of vapor behind it making weird streaks in the sky.

Without looking up I’d miss the breezes playing in the tops of pine and oak. I’d miss the orange and red trumpet flowers on the trellis at the library. And I’d miss the purple wisteria climbing amongst the reeds, lush as Caleb and Joshua’s grape clusters.

An old pastor of my home church was often quoted in our family when things turned a bit dismal. Someone would say, “As Pastor White says, ‘Keep looking up.'” Pastor White wasn’t talking about magnolia blossoms, birds’ nests, high flying planes or wisteria vines. He was talking about our walk with Jesus. He was talking about our trusting Him when life is dark. He was talking about keeping our eyes (our consciousness, our focus) on Jesus rather than on frustrating circumstances down on our level.

If life is throwing you a curve, if you find yourself in a rut, if trouble is hounding you–don’t forget: “Keep looking up.”

For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent and set me high upon a rock. Psalm 27:5

Grandchildren Trees

The week our first grandchild was born happened to be Earth Week. When my husband and I ordered hamburgers at a McDonald’s near the hospital we received along with our meal a tiny pine tree planted in a Styrofoam cup. We laughed about the incongruity of an Earth Day gift in a Styrofoam cup. But we liked the little tree and, even though we had lots of huge pines already, we set out to plant that one. We planted it where it would receive plenty of sunshine and grow to a lofty height. This tree, we told each other, would always be our granddaughter Amanda’s age. It was quite naturally dubbed “Amanda’s Tree.” In the picture we took of her with her tree when they were a year old she’s smiling big and the tree only reached to her little feet dangling from the stroller. Now, at twenty-five, our girl turned woman has to look high in the sky to see the top of her tree.

When our next grandchild was born someone was giving away maple trees in cups. We planted Charles Douglas’s little tree near a couple other maples hoping for bright colors in the fall. “This tree will never be as tall as Amanda’s pine,” I worried. But Charles, my husband, reasoned that wasn’t the point. We were planting a nice tree to honor the birth of Charles Douglas Reeves. Later, when he was old enough to question why his tree wasn’t as big as Amanda’s, I assured him his would be much brighter.

Our third grandchild was born on the first of January, not in March like the first two. No one was passing out trees in Birmingham. But when we got home to our place in Cairo, Georgia, we looked around and decided this grandson, William Stacey Graham, Jr., should have a tree also. It just so happened that not far from one of our huge pines was a brand new long leaf seedling. Charles staked it for protection and that became William’s tree. As you can imagine, for two or three years he was totally unimpressed by that little tree. As he grew in wisdom and stature, however, he was glad to own a tree as his cousins did.

And then along came Thomas Hamilton Graham, born in February. No trees were being given. But Charles and I had begun to crave a ghinko tree. We’d enjoyed their fall color when we lived in Athens and then had been intrigued by the sprawling ghinko at our church in Cairo where it hugs up under a magnificent sweetgum. We purchased a ghinko tree that spring and planted it by the driveway where a palm tree had died leaving a nice rich spot. Thomas’s tree grew year by year more slowly than the other trees but with a certain exotic atmosphere true to its Chinese heritage, its fan-shaped leaves turning gold in the fall.

By the time Martha Elizabeth Graham was born in March, 2009, we had become enthusiasts of the majestic and romantic magnolia trees. Charles planted one for “Mattie” across the driveway from Thomas’s ghinko tree. I thought about the women in the movie “Steel Magnolias” and felt sure this little girl who, even at her difficult birth, was called by her father “a fighter,” would become both gentle and strong like them. Our first picture of Mattie with her tree shows her instant curiosity over those shiny leaves.

Growing a tree for each of our five grandchildren has not been without some disappoint-ments. Thomas’s ghinko tree lost its whole top one year in a storm but it has recovered and looks beautiful now. Charles Douglas’s maple contracted some kind of moldy disease and died. Charles D took it in stride. We planted him another tree but it died too. By then Charles D himself was about grown and able to laugh about losing two trees. “Don’t plant another one,” he said. “Look at all these trees we have to mow around already.”

And now we’re selling our place, our beloved “Lane of Palms.” What will happen to all the grandchildren trees? I comfort myself in thinking some other children will enjoy playing around those trees. But I know that is just a leafy dream. We can look at our pictures from “tree photo ops” over the years and reminisce. But I hope most of all that our grandchildren will always love and respect trees and find joy in their beauty.

As Joyce Kilmer wrote in his poem titled “Trees,” “Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.”

If you’ve planted trees for your grandchildren, or made some other kind of collection, given books to the library in their honor, or made a tradition of some kind with them, please share your comments below.

 

Three Poems

Magnolia Morning

Magnolia leaves,

Brittle as hammered copper,

Light as starched silk,

Inert on the asphalt.

Like small platters on edge,

Odd tents tilted,

Or rusty boats beached.

Then in a moment of blustery breeze

Leaves swirl into a dance

Skittering and careening

Like wild skaters.

Their rattly metallic  commotion

Breaks the morning silence

Briefly.

Then, like actors at the end of a scene,

Or children playing freeze tag,

They take their random places

And simply wait.

 

Little Red Horns

In protected shadows

Under low limbs of a cherry tree

Mysterious flowers open.

Clusters of horn shaped blooms

Atop tall stalks.

I can almost hear the little red horns

Playing some plaintive tune.

Maybe “O Danny Boy,”

Or their own tune it could be,

Something sweet and simple

And bright.

Just like them.

Apalachicola Sunrise

Seashell pink, lavender, and faintest green

Reflected in the river,

A rippled moving wash,

An artist’s liquid palette

Edged by distant line of marsh grass.

From Caroline’s while eating

Grits and shrimp and eggs,

We watch early boats ply past.

Scattering sunrise waves.

Silent dark birds swoop

For morning morsels.

Noisy seagulls, clad in perfect tuxes,

Circle boardwalks, light on pilings, follow the boats.

The river is quiet again until

A simple craft hums into view.

Six fishermen heading out to sea.

We hear a faint drift of voices from men whose

Reels stand about them ready for bait.

Out towards the bay, beyond the bridge’s arch,

The day opens blue and bright.