Cedars

CEDARS

‘Why y’plantin’ weeds?’ asks my brother. 

I ignore him. Or, rather, I give him that weary don’t-bug-me-I’m-busy look he should know by now, and go back to transplanting cedar saplings. 

Sure, around here, as in most of the South, the red cedar is a weed. It sprouts in pastures, it spreads into pine plantations. The tree just plain is a survivor; that’s why I’m putting in a hedge of them. Nothing grows as readily in our sparse sandy soil. 

Except maybe sandspurs and saw palmettos—those I could do without. 

They make a quite handsome tree as they grow. At first they have the Christmas tree look about them. Alas, they do not do well in that role, once cut; the needles fall far too quickly. When more mature, they spread their gnarled limbs, harboring the tiny darting Blue-gray Gnatcatchers. 

And, in the season, the Cedar Waxwings come to gorge on their berries. Ah, those pungent blue berries! The tree is actually a juniper, you know. Yes, they’re the flavoring in gin. 

So, on a cool autumn day, with rain in the air, I find myself planting young cedars beside the drive. Some will not make it, I know; some will grow into beauties in a surprisingly short time. 

When I am done, tools put away, the soil washed from me by a welcome hot shower, I will toast the ‘weeds.’ With gin, of course.
 

Stephen Brooke ©2008
this vignette appeared in the “Retellings” collection