The Climbing Tree
Every morning, I step outside my front door and greet the world. I say good morning to the palm trees, the crows, the sky, the squirrels, the sycamores, and the Japanese Maple in our neighbors’ front yard.
Today, the Japanese Maple said good morning back.
To be exact, it wasn’t the Japanese Maple who said Good Morning to me. It was Hazel, our new neighbor. She and her parents just moved in two days ago. She’ll be six years old in February (so she told me) and she said Good Morning to me from inside her favorite climbing tree.
“Good morning Hazel, how are you?” I said to the Japanese Maple. This was more of a conversation than I usually have with a tree. Although I once conversed for what seemed like an hour with a tall old redwood outside the Airbnb in Clam Beach where my husband and I were staying on our trip to the Oregon Coast. I had just smoked some weed and was in need of deep thought. Also, it had been a rough day. I remember staring up at the crown of the tree for a long time, a question forming in my mind: how did you get so tall?! The redwood gave me a simple and direct answer: you never stop growing. This probably sounds trivial to you now, but to me, back then, it was a profound revelation. Of course, I was stoned. But even today, years later and reasonably clear-headed, I appreciate the redwood tree’s answer. Honestly, I believe the most profound truths are generally pretty simple. Simple, but not easy to accomplish.
It makes me really happy that the Japanese Maple in our neighbor’s front yard has officially become a climbing tree. We haven’t had young kids on our block for a while now. Our daughter has grown up (like a redwood tree, and she’s not stopping, either) and moved to Chicago. Our next door neighbors on the other side, Florence and Craig, have adult children as well. Peter and Anne across the street have teens (whom our daughter used to babysit back when they were little.) When our Japanese Maple-neighbors, Dinah and Miko, a lovely, white-haired lesbian couple, announced that they were selling their house and moving to Whidbey Island, we were sad. But then they told us that it was Dinah’s daughter, Sara, and her husband, Steve, who had bought the house. They had just had a baby girl, Willa, and were moving in with their little family, including Hazel, the almost-six-year-old tree climbing enthusiast. We loved the idea of the family cycle continuing, the house welcoming the next generation. Sara had grown up in this house, and now her daughters would, too.
I wonder if Sara used to climb the Japanese Maple when she was a kid? She’s in her 30’s now, but the tree looks like it’s been around for a while. It really is the perfect climbing tree – spread out, sturdy branches, comfortingly low to the ground (for the parents) but twisted enough to be exciting (for the kids.)
It reminds me of our daughter’s favorite climbing tree, at Doran Beach campground on the Sonoma Coast. It is how we remembered the best campsite ever so we could rent it again year after year: Campsite G, the climbing tree. I don’t recall when we first camped out there; our daughter was probably a toddler, or maybe a kindergartner at the most. But we fell in love with campsite G and the climbing tree right away. The campsite is nestled in a small, windswept grove of trees right behind a dune, only a few feet from the beach. It is the last campsite in that section, very private. You can sit by the fire and watch the waves, and listen to the soothing call of the foghorn all night. And there is the climbing tree. Just like the Japanese Maple, twisted, sturdy and low to the ground. I wish I could tell you what kind of tree it is. I’ll have to look it up next time I visit. I am terrible with tree names.
It was perfect for our daughter. We spent countless summers of our daughter’s childhood at Doran Beach, and at some point, we started the tradition of renting campsite G for our daughter’s birthday in March. Our daughter was born the day before my husband’s birthday, so March has always been a busy month at our house, especially when she was little; and a little stressful for me, juggling the birthday cluster, and making sure everyone felt special. Campsite G was the perfect birthday spot for both of them. Our daughter could bring her friends, play in the waves and climb the tree all day, then have birthday s’mores and hot chocolate by the campfire. My husband would kick back with some good Tequila and carefully curated music from our boombox (before the days of bluetooth speakers), and we would go for walks along the beach where he could photograph to his heart’s content.
As our daughter grew older, my husband and I were relegated to chaperone status on these excursions, fading into the background to provide sustenance and keep an eye on adventurous teens, help set up tents, make pancakes over an open fire, and yell at everyone to clean up the next day. Eventually, on our daughter’s 17th birthday, it was just me, hiding in my little tent with some Bourbon, watching wistfully as the teens cranked up “Dancing Queen” for our girl at midnight and frolicked around the beach until the wee hours of morning, likely fueled by illegal libations. Everyone survived happily. It was a sweet and terrifying night.
Then our daughter officially became an adult, and she continued the Campsite G birthday tradition with her friends (sans parental interference) into her 20’s, every year, until she moved to Chicago. Now she parties with her new friends on the shores of Lake Michigan, a lake as big as the sea. It makes Doran Beach seem small. But when she comes home to visit, she usually finds time for a day trip to Bodega Bay. I’m sure one day she will camp there again. Perhaps even with us.
I often go out to the coast by myself, for hikes on the Kortum Trail, or the Bodega Bay Bird Walk that leads directly to Doran Beach. But I never walk over to visit Campsite G. It’s been years since I’ve camped there, I can’t even remember the last time. It could have been the 17th birthday Dancing Queen party.
I think I will stop by campsite G on my next visit to Bodega Bay. I want to make sure the climbing tree is still there, and I want to finally confirm what kind of tree it is. Like I said, I am terrible with tree names.
In the meantime, I take comfort in Hazel, and her Japanese Maple. In this rapidly changing world, it feels good to know that somewhere there will always be a six-year-old with a favorite climbing tree.