Trees are like people

The sound of an axe as it hits a tree trunk tells

a story about the life of the tree; its genealogy, 

its history, its personality. 

An old callistemon or bottle brush will groan with 

a thick wet thunk as an axe blade splits its flesh, 

biting into the resistant phylum, sinews skewed

by the keen whet edge of foreign metal, matter as 

strange to it as alien life will be to humankind.

A dry tone coupled with strong vibrations coming back 

up the axe handle will tell you it's a gum, maybe an 

ironbark of indeterminate age until such times as its 

rings are exposed

The paper bark will catch you by surprise, looking like

a fluffy winter cardigan, its soft skin curling and inviting 

but its resistance to sharp blows can come as a shock.

Take stock - all is not as it seems.

The camphor laurel will greet your attack by scenting 

the air with its perfume, rewarding you with the incense 

of its death long after it is gone.

As we do with one another - we often decide if we like 

a tree from a distance because we like its shape or 

colour, or we know it will do something for us like 

provide shade, fruit, safe harbour or a hiding place

Often, we don’t realise how much we depended on a 

tree until it is cut down; its amenity something we took

for granted until it is lost. My uncle treated people like 

trees - severe pruning being his favourite garden activity

His adage was if a tree doesn’t do what you want, then 

get one that will. Oh, he would graft and prune and 

trim and shape regardless of whether the tree was 

suitable for the ground, the location or the climate.

Sometimes I wonder if we realise that producing sturdy 

fruit requires sturdy boughs. Some people need to be 

handled with tenderness and care, and even then they 

will never produce sturdy fruit. 

Don’t plant an apple tree if you want a dainty flowering 

hedge. Go ahead and plant an orchard of apples but 

don’t be sorry if there is no delicate beauty to soften 

the landscape, or to hand to your spouse after an argument.

Every time I chop wood for the fireplace I wonder at the life 

of a tree. I am so practiced with an axe that sometimes,

before awareness comes, I have one in my mouth,

readying myself to make a deep incision into the 

flesh of an argument that needs to be felled quickly.

Those occasions never end well.

MDC July 2021