When my husband and I bought an old house in a Traverse City neighborhood, I admired the ten spruce trees on our small lot. There were three in the front and seven in the back, taller than the house—and so beautiful, invincible. They added welcome shade, privacy, and a nesting site for birds. They also added pine cones, needles, and pitch—but I loved them anyway.
From my window in an upstairs bedroom, I could stare into their long branches which were always moving, tossing and dancing with such grace while the trunks stood firm. Tall, beautiful, invincible.
Then, after we’d lived in the house a few years, a November storm swept across our region one night, bringing fierce winds and toppling one of the spruce trees. In the morning, we found it sprawled across the back yard, its crown resting on the neighbor’s garage roof.
Fortunately, no one was hurt and the garage undamaged. But that gorgeous tree was ruined. I could hardly believe it and felt heartsick, felt betrayed somehow. The spruce trees weren’t invincible after all; maybe nothing was.
I felt less secure but more grateful—for our nine trees, still tall and beautiful.
Writer Karen Anderson lives in Traverse City.
