A Love Letter to a Tree and a Hero

My farm has a cathedral. It started as a tiny chapel, one of five deciduous trees on my prairie farm. She is an elm, what they call a weed tree, but we aren’t picky out here. Just the same, I didn’t give her much credit in those early years. At first, she cast a limited umbrella of thin shade, barely two lawn chairs wide. She was an upstart, halfway between the house and the barn. I could sit under her, as long as I moved my chair as the sun moved her shade. What I didn’t know then is that you cannot advocate for animals without advocating for the environment.

If a spring hailstorm stripped her young leaves, she was left battered for the whole summer. But the next spring, she gave it her quiet all. Some years, her growth was almost imperceptible, but she persisted. She grew into a cathedral on this high desert prairie because of consistent accidental watering. I have dumped and scrubbed the horse’s water tank religiously, and she took advantage.

I like to think part of the reason she opened her arms so generously is that the cremains of generations of beloved dogs, sprinkled around her trunk, have made her roots rich. Naturally, that was where I went when I heard the news.

I had known who Jane Goodall was for decades before my farm. I won’t list her accomplishments, her accolades, or try to measure the impact Jane had in the world. Because I think she was immeasurable. Because to me, it was personal. She was a frequent voice in my head. Call her my imaginary friend.

It’s hard to believe there was a time when I didn’t know people studied animal behavior. When I was young, people had chided me for spending so much time with animals, but later, Jane validated my choice and even encouraged my curiosity. We had a kinship since I had been doing my own studies, entranced by animals on our farm since I was old enough to sneak out of the house. Like millions of others, Jane made me feel a little less crazy. More than that, she made the world see animals in their full sentient selves. They were someone you could have a conversation with. Talk about a geeky girl’s superhero.

When I finally came to my own farm, I was alone with six species, not counting visiting wild cousins. As I wrote in my memoir, Stable Relation, I pretended to be Jane. I observed, made notes, immersed myself in the environment. The line between wild and tame blurred. And my understanding took on new dimensions the more time I spent listening to nonverbal language. That quiet study changed my life, as I expect it changed Jane’s.

What did Jane feel working with a species so similar to herself? Not just learning their language, but discovering that chimpanzees used tools, had complicated societies, and could be aggressive, even killing one another. So very like humans that she famously said dogs were her favorite animal. Oh, the irony. And that she wished people were more like animals. Opinions like this don’t endear you to the traditionalists. Ask me how I know.

And so, we inch along, changing our relationship with animals as we learn more. Change in our world feels as slow as trees grow. And change is inevitable, says Edgar Rice Burro. My horses are retired, and the tree has come to meet them over the fence, lulling them with a breeze. Preferring the elm’s shelter to the barns, the herd stands close in her shade. And she returns the favor of their water, creating synergy in our little environment.

I can’t reach around her trunk now. Owls, cats, varmints, and countless varieties of smaller birds have stared down at me, as I have stared back. There’s a pony tire swing, a welcome sign for short ones. Tree swings for long conversations, usually about animals. The tree is the biggest room in my home, helping me make friends with my species.

This has been a year when change seems to happen all at once. It takes just a week for autumn to slip in. The nights are cooler; daylight hours are lost. The trees are flaming yellow as the sky goes to a more intense blue. Colors in suspended animation, waiting for that first windy Halloween snow. But our tree stands in defiance. She will hold out until the very last. Her leaves are faded green, but never yellow or red. They will not surrender so easily. And when the leaves finally fall, the horses will gobble them up like exotic snack chips, the circle complete.

Every year, this tree is the slowest to let go of her leaves. Like me, in a stubborn fight against the passage of time, even though time is the ingredient that has made both of us shine.

Did Jane know the inspiration she has been to legions of women like me? That when I hear the rusty old insult-joke, some version of “You train like a girl,” that I think of her, put on a wide smile, and stand a bit taller?

Throughout Jane’s life, she was adamant that environmental concerns were animal welfare concerns. She saw the big picture. As I see the current state of horses, well, it doesn’t take Jane Goodall to tell you horses won’t be the long-term survivors of the damage we chimps are doing. Dogs have more respect for their homes. How do we look at nature and not want to protect it?

It’s been 26 years I have lived with this tree. Her sister trees have all surrendered to disease, but she stands strong. In cold months, there is no sign of life. As if she had died, but she’s back with the sun. She is also our hope for the future. Our tree has a condition called bacterial wetwood, or slime flux. It looks like she’s crying. It’s a reasonable response, but I will fight for her. We must stand for this land we love.

When I gaze into her branches, I like to remember those gone before. The other trees, but also my family herd in the barn, my dogs. My friends and my heroes. I say their names, let their memory join me in the way that makes me stronger, even as I feel more vulnerable with age. So, I let Jane be my example once again.

I wonder if we shared the same religion, the one sustained by nature. If Jane looked at trees, and saw cathedrals. If watching seasons pass through their branches was a reminder that we must continue to fight the good fight.

I never met Jane. I’m shy to use her first name, but I’ve talked to her for hours under this tree. And since I imagined all those words, there’s no reason to stop now. I hope she will be the planet’s guardian angel. I know Jane won’t be far away. I’ll see her smile in the branches. I’ll see her in the work I do. I’ll see her in my dogs. I’m her legacy. We all are, and there is work to do.

…

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Women Aging Cantankerously