The old elm went deep, stretching twisted sinews ever downward, down through loamy, dark soil.  Ever further, always searching. Seeking until finding that which was desired.  Penetrating layer upon layer of sandy, coarse matter until the wooden talons finally obtained their probable rest. Reaching over and out toward the far reaches of the property line, leaching rich nutrients and minerals, day by day.  The steady branches and broad trunk a monument to the unaccounted-for years it stood, and withstood: frigid temperatures, scorching sun, brutal winds.

Leaves: they, too, came and went, through the years.  Until one day, a young Boy wrapped his arms around the wide berth of the base {and looking out over the river, he watched the last leaf fall}.

As time moves on, so did the saga of the Elm.

The tree was felled.  It became a risk.  It posed a danger for the boy and his sisters, three.  It was too close to the house and barns and constantly shifting scenery below: the comings and goings of the farm and family now vulnerable to the dangers imposed from up above.  The Husband called on his father to assist, and both men felt jagged pangs of sadness as the tree was eventually flung—from out of the sky—falling to its imminent death below.

A loud reverberation followed.  And all was silent then, as we mourned the loss of The Tree.  Mourned for the legacy.

I still think of this majestic tree when my hand runs smoothly, palm down, over the little table Husband made from the hardwood boards of old Elm.

{It’s branches preserved as a gift to the Boy one Christmas, a table and two chairs}.

I am reminded— never forget your roots.

My roots run deep.  Tonight, while walking under twinkling lantern light placed strategically around a snowy track, I remember.

My roots: etched in a mother’s first story viewed in print.  That little article: it was called “God Laughs, He Really Does.”  Featuring Mom and me and homemade bread.  I can even now remember the smells and tastes and textures.  And because of this printed word from my mother’s pen: I found myself reading her words over and over and over again, throughout my childhood.  Until one day, I wrote a story of my own.  My own words sprung like new growth from a branch that came directly from my family tree.

My writing roots stretch wide.  My mother read to me from piles of books ever present all around our house: books centered around cultural celebration, fantasy, history, myth.  Spiritual books and school books.  The Bible.  Classics and tall tales.  She encouraged me to read.  And also to write.  And so I did.  Developing my roots into something stronger, more sturdy. Something lasting.

My deep, lasting roots.  I now commemorate.

They lead me to today.

In watching a young reader, late this afternoon: in talking with him about that book he was reading and those decisions made “in the moment” (his “in-the-head” strategies used without a thought as to why or how), I wondered.  “What will he remember about his roots when pressed to come up with something at the hardy age of forty-four?”

Will his roots include a mother, a teacher, a dad, a friend… who supported his literacy endeavors?  Will they include someone who encouraged him to read?  To write?  Will he remember tender conversations, warm embraces, heads bent low over an inviting series shared at bedtime, inducing cozy yawns and pleading for ‘just one page more’?  What memories will be recalled?  What rituals will endure in his young mind, staying with him for a lifetime of remembering…

his roots?

His roots.  My roots.  Our roots.  They run deep and they are enduring.