tall grass. The one about going for water’s at the edge of the stream. But this one,” I gesture toward the mess of bushes and weeds and pine trees behind the “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” plaque, and I shake my head. “All this has nothing to do with the poem.”
“Not today, maybe,” Nonna says. “But imagine this spot in another season when the pine boughs are drooping with snow.”
I squint at all the green. “Maybe,” I say. “But it’s hard.”
“It is hard,” Nonna says. “But you’re an artist. You should know there’s more to a story than the part happening right now.”
“Here.” Mom hands me another couple of leaves. “They’re from this tree right behind you. Use your leaf key to identify them. I’m going to try and find us a spot to rest that’s out of the wind.” She zips her jacket and walks ahead.
“Or you could just use that,” Nonna whispers and points to the sign at the base of the tree. I write “beaked hazelnut” on another plastic bag and zip the leaves inside.
When Nonna and I catch up to Mom, she’s brushed all the dead leaves off a long wooden bench, sheltered on three sides by big old trees.
“Get a few leaves and join us,” Mom says pointing up at a branch that still has leaves hanging on.
“I have this one.” I pluck a leaf and hand it to her. “It’s a white oak. I’m going to go on ahead, okay?”
“That’s fine,” Mom says. “We’ll be along soon.”
I flip through the plastic bags in my shoe box while I walk, and I have to admit Nonna’s idea was awesome. I have eighteen leaves from this walk alone, added to the four I think I still have at home.
I round a bend in the trail, and the trees thin out until there are just low bushes on each side. Blueberry bushes, I think, but it’s too late in the season for berries. I watch for sweet spots of dark blue anyway, walking with my head down until I trip and go sprawling into damp leaves and bang my elbow on a root so hard I have to catch my breath.
I hold on to my box of leaves though. For once.
And then I look up and have to catch my breath all over again because the killer root belongs to the most incredibly fantastic climbing tree in the entire universe.
I know climbing trees. Zig and I have climbed every tree in our neighborhood that’s even the tiniest bit climbable. Even Mr. Webster’s crab apple, and that one’s really hard because he doesn’t cut it back enough, so there are skinny branches sticking out all over the place.
But this one. This is the great-grandmother of all climbing trees.
Robert Frost must have been a climber. I bet he grew this tree special for climbing and had somebody cut it back every year so it would have perfect branches for footholds. They’re perfectly spaced. They’re the perfect thickness. Just far enough apart but not too far. Perfect.
And the best part is that the branches go all the way to the top without turning into the skinny ones that might snap under your feet. They stay thick and sturdy.
This is no climb-halfway-up-and-run-out-of-good-branches tree. It’s an all-the-way-to-the-top tree.
I balance my leaf box on the root that tripped me. For a second, I think about stopping to identify this tree, but it’s way more fun to climb it.
So I climb instead.
Without having to stop or find a new route even once, I’m within a Gianna-length of the very top—probably forty feet off the ground, at least.
And my perfect tree has a perfect view. The shoe box on the root looks tiny from up here. But the mountains, all hazy purple in the distance, still look big and old. And the trees are amazing. My eyes skim the tops of fluffy red and yellow trees still holding on to September, then swoop down into the dark spaces where the leaves have already fallen, where black branches scratch the edges of the hills.
Mom and Nonna wind their way toward the clearing until they’re almost right underneath me, but they don’t spot the shoe box, tucked
“Not today, maybe,” Nonna says. “But imagine this spot in another season when the pine boughs are drooping with snow.”
I squint at all the green. “Maybe,” I say. “But it’s hard.”
“It is hard,” Nonna says. “But you’re an artist. You should know there’s more to a story than the part happening right now.”
“Here.” Mom hands me another couple of leaves. “They’re from this tree right behind you. Use your leaf key to identify them. I’m going to try and find us a spot to rest that’s out of the wind.” She zips her jacket and walks ahead.
“Or you could just use that,” Nonna whispers and points to the sign at the base of the tree. I write “beaked hazelnut” on another plastic bag and zip the leaves inside.
When Nonna and I catch up to Mom, she’s brushed all the dead leaves off a long wooden bench, sheltered on three sides by big old trees.
“Get a few leaves and join us,” Mom says pointing up at a branch that still has leaves hanging on.
“I have this one.” I pluck a leaf and hand it to her. “It’s a white oak. I’m going to go on ahead, okay?”
“That’s fine,” Mom says. “We’ll be along soon.”
I flip through the plastic bags in my shoe box while I walk, and I have to admit Nonna’s idea was awesome. I have eighteen leaves from this walk alone, added to the four I think I still have at home.
I round a bend in the trail, and the trees thin out until there are just low bushes on each side. Blueberry bushes, I think, but it’s too late in the season for berries. I watch for sweet spots of dark blue anyway, walking with my head down until I trip and go sprawling into damp leaves and bang my elbow on a root so hard I have to catch my breath.
I hold on to my box of leaves though. For once.
And then I look up and have to catch my breath all over again because the killer root belongs to the most incredibly fantastic climbing tree in the entire universe.
I know climbing trees. Zig and I have climbed every tree in our neighborhood that’s even the tiniest bit climbable. Even Mr. Webster’s crab apple, and that one’s really hard because he doesn’t cut it back enough, so there are skinny branches sticking out all over the place.
But this one. This is the great-grandmother of all climbing trees.
Robert Frost must have been a climber. I bet he grew this tree special for climbing and had somebody cut it back every year so it would have perfect branches for footholds. They’re perfectly spaced. They’re the perfect thickness. Just far enough apart but not too far. Perfect.
And the best part is that the branches go all the way to the top without turning into the skinny ones that might snap under your feet. They stay thick and sturdy.
This is no climb-halfway-up-and-run-out-of-good-branches tree. It’s an all-the-way-to-the-top tree.
I balance my leaf box on the root that tripped me. For a second, I think about stopping to identify this tree, but it’s way more fun to climb it.
So I climb instead.
Without having to stop or find a new route even once, I’m within a Gianna-length of the very top—probably forty feet off the ground, at least.
And my perfect tree has a perfect view. The shoe box on the root looks tiny from up here. But the mountains, all hazy purple in the distance, still look big and old. And the trees are amazing. My eyes skim the tops of fluffy red and yellow trees still holding on to September, then swoop down into the dark spaces where the leaves have already fallen, where black branches scratch the edges of the hills.
Mom and Nonna wind their way toward the clearing until they’re almost right underneath me, but they don’t spot the shoe box, tucked
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