The Storytellers
Circular memories of droughts and floods can be seen long after the
roots have lost their ability to clasp beloved clumps of moist soil.
Tales of lightning storms and forest fires are told and retold by sliced
trunks and whittled branches residing in cabinets and coffeetables,
spoon handles and figurines. Oak shelves and knotty-pine walls whisper,
then listen with awe when the antique mahogany bedframe recounts exotic
tales of hurricane winds and tropical heat endured beneath clouds of
mosquito net and mists of crocheted lace. Taking turns, the redwood
picnic bench and lodgepole-pine telephone pole entertain young trees
with bittersweet memories of lean years, showing off the narrow streaks
in their grain. All around them, young ornamental pears and fruitless
mulberries, lined up in obedient rows along the edge of the park, take
a secret pleasure in hearing about the fat years displayed by old, splintered
veterans as wide bands of plenty, each cell of wood still replete with
gathered sunlight, a life of rooted growth fulfilled and recorded in
the tribal chronicles of tree rings.