Across the street from the Atlanta Rowing Club Boathouse on
Azalea, there’s a little park next to the Chattahoochee
– it’s little more than a parking lot and a few picnic tables but it will do in
a pinch. Today, as I often do I went
there to eat lunch, shake off Monday morning and watch the geese goose about or
whatever it is that geese do. There are
several perplexing oddities about what I observe while working in the suburbs.
Not the least of which is the inordinate amount of people who seem to have
little else to do than to stroll along the banks of a muddy river in wind suits
on a cloudy Monday. If the setting were
changed (say to my neighborhood) such a set of humans would be deemed shiftless
and ne'er-do-well no doubt. Perception
is all a matter of perspective I suppose.
Speaking of perspective, I’m sure you’ve noticed the magnificent
contrast of beige-white Beech fringe against the harsh edge of this winter’s grey coat. If you haven’t, you should. You’ll spot them usually along a river, nestled
in the low damp earth or clustered against the northern slope of a tall hill
and always in the protective shade of a mature tree canopy. Their apparitional leaves dance decisively
among the stark, bitter branches of their less organized neighbors, laughing at
the frozen season. Not all Beech keep
their leaves through the winter – only the young and kind of pissed off ones, I
think. I dig that. Even in nature, attitude can win the day,
right? If you’ve seen them, you know
what I mean. They are the last ones
standing so to speak, at least as it pertains to leaf retention. It’s a big defiant ‘f@&% you’ to
winter. If you listen closely, you can
hear them silently scream, “really?” “they’re mine, I’m keepin’ ‘em…”, with a
tilted brim and a nervous branch on the 9 mm (at least in my imagination). Not sure why I felt the need to force the
natural world through a Boyz n the Hood
filter, but if you can see past that you can see the deeper metaphor I
hope.
It’s only this time of year that I notice them at all
actually. It’s only when the blistered
sky falls such as it has today that I am conscious of their screaming, “look at me!” I don’t recognize how
beautiful they are in the early fall when their deep easy dies down to gold and
then fades to a soft leathered brass.
That’s really when they are their most stunning; but it’s still too hot
to hike comfortably in late October.
There’s still too much green around to appreciate the difference – the
distinction between their leafy darkness and the lightness of their silvery
smooth barked hosts.
A day like today’s overcast nonsense certainly isn’t the finest
venue to understand what I’m trying to say.
But on a day like today if you sit still long enough and put your mind
in the right place, you can honestly almost hear Thelonius Monk whisper to John
Coltrane…”something really cool…” as the breeze bangs into and among them. And still, the best of ever is witnessing these all
but dead beauties bathing in the crispness of a cloudless winter sun. That aforementioned white-beige on a cloudy day becomes a
glowing cathedral of torch-lit brilliance in low February sunshine. Without their willful insolence to hold on to
whatever they can until springtime reinforcements return to push
their dead away, winter would suck more than it already does.
That “deeper metaphor” that I mentioned earlier? Every night will pass. As cold and hoary as winter can be, if your
eyes are open you can always perceive the promise of an original spring somewhere around the corner. You just have to know where to look. Today I saw it in a Beech on a Monday next to the soft muddy banks of a simple river
meandering through a sleepy suburb.
