It was June 2014. My husband and daughter had taken off on an adventure. A theme park of some kind. He was insistent on the trip and she was thrilled. I was hopeful the two could begin to build on what they always used to do when she was little. It was their Saturday morning routine. Up early, coffee, chocolate milk and a doughnut or two-and then off into the wild yonder of yard sales, flea markets, contractor stores and whatever else required the keen eye of a father and daughter on an adventure.
That June was different. My daughter was 12 and wise to the wounds of a father struggling with trauma and addiction-and yet,finding comfort and sobriety while holding on to the very essence of his life, our little family of three. That June, it seemed almost crucial the two go away and find each other again. Reclaim the father daughter relationship. Honor what was and moved towards what is. Hope was in play here. I was counting on hope.
The pictures sent over that weekend were thrilling. Roller-coaster rides, junk food, hotel swimming pools, more junk food, more rides and more bonding. True to how most adventures went with these two, I was also expecting the back of my husbands truck to be filled with treasures-collected from the ride up and back and every little stop in between every little town along the way. You would be surprised at what could fit in the back of my husbands truck….or what he could sneak into the barn without me ever knowing! However, on the return of that particular trip, there were no bits and pieces of chairs, tools, tractors, or something else with the hint of promise. There were trees. Two dozen trees. He had gotten them on sale and each arrived looking a little road weary, a tag dangling from each of them: “water me quick, I am thirsty.” In truth, some of the trees were showing signs of pending death. Half dead, half alive. It was as if they were screaming out to be planted in the solid ground to gain a foot hold on whatever was left of their living. I think back on that moment. I think back on that moment a lot.
The trees were taken out of the back of the truck and placed where they were to be planted. They were watered thoroughly. Soaked for days even. The trees were given a chance to thrive while still in the original container-still with their tags dangling. The trees sat there for a week. Then two. Then four. More signs of dead branches, more leaves falling to the ground. More signs that no amount of watering was going to work. Half dead. Half alive. Finally, out of frustration and after offering to plant them many times over and after the trees became a running joke amongst friends who would pull into the drive way, the trees became an issue. A big issue.
Over the years, we had planted many trees on our property. Trees in honor of loved ones, anniversaries, and privacy. Those trees were grounded and green with bud or flowers. The other trees, not so much. I could not understand why my husband could not plant those trees-why he would not let anyone else help plant those trees and what he found so impossible about looking at half dead trees. A month went by. It was clear all but six of the trees were dead and those clinging to life were fading fast. Then, one August morning, very early I looked out the window and there was my husband, frantically planting the trees. All of them. Even the dead trees. He was sweating in the early August sun, and he looked frantic. I went outside and we argued over why after all this time he was planting dead trees. He looked at me. It was clear he had been crying. It was clear he was conflicted.
What are you doing? I asked. Why are you planting dead trees?
He threw down the shovel and said to me through tears.
I can hope can’t I??
He stormed off and I let it be.
There are four of those trees remaining. This spring they have new growth.
There is hope.