In 1968, Virginia and her husband Robert bought a house at the base of the south hills in our beautiful Eugene, Oregon, and began to grow their family. And as their family grew, so too did the approximately 70 year old tree (give or take 10 years) planted about 10 feet from the wall of their kitchen. The tree was a dawn redwood, Metasequoia glyptostroboides, and it acted as an anchor for any family memory created on the western half of the house. Even back in those days, it was about as tall as the house itself, and the long branches already filtered much of the sky.

Virginia loves plants, and she loves her wild garden of ivy, holly, roses, camellias, rhododendrons, dogwoods, maples, laurels, grapes, and on and on, and she believed then, as she does now, that the dawn redwood had as much right to her yard as she had. Perhaps even more, as it had staked claim there first. And I, as her recent landscaping hiree, having spent about 20% of my time at Virginia’s raking up those pesky little double-combed needles—blowing them unsuccessfully over the porch cracks, yanking them frustratingly out of every corner, shrub, and herbaceous plant - just had to wonder, how did this tree come to be here, literally 3 feet away from the house?

And one late-October morning, I sat down with my dear client Virgina, the absolute definition of a sweet-old-lady, (but don’t let that fool you—she has a twinkle of exuberance, maybe even a little mischievousness, in her eye) and I asked her about her life with the tree.

Virginia: [Getting right into it] Mr. Shorty Jones was a rodeo rider, a retired rodeo rider. And he knocked on our front door one day, and he said, “could I see the tree I planted when I was 10 years old?”

We were in the middle of remodeling the house. And he knew that things were changing, and he wanted to know if there was going to be a major change. He wanted to see his tree before. So we said, sure, come in!

When he saw it, his eyes just widened, and he said, “Wow. I brought that tree from Arcata, California, when I was 10 years old. And I put it in the ground.” He said that at the time it was about an inch in girth… And we were all amazed at how much it had grown. At that time, it was already a big, tall tree, about as tall as the house. That was in 1971.

When he came to visit, he was a gray-haired, wizened old man, and he just wanted to remember his boyhood. Because he lived in this house with his family. They were renting. It was something of a boarding house, where different rooms were rented out to different families. And they would all park over there, under where the tree is now. At that time, there was a carport.

Donna: And nobody stopped him from planting it…10, 15 feet away from the house? Didn’t they know it was going to get this big?

Virginia: Well, the house was actually further away. This wall was three feet in. We enlarged the kitchen, and we moved it out three feet. And there was a little laundry room, just an open room. And there was an outhouse and, what do you call it…a pump house! Those were outside. And no…I don’t think they knew how big it was going to get.

Donna: Do you know what year he planted it?

Virginia: Well, when he was 10 years old. And I don’t know. I didn’t ask him how old he was. He was white-haired. And he was very thin and very tall.
Donna: Similar to the tree.

Virginia: Yes, I guess so. But I don’t think of the tree that way now.

We both fall silent for a moment, allowing Virginia’s last sentence to settle in the still air around us. Then she turns around and tilts her head upward, following the enormous trunk up to the point where it explodes into a radial vision of elongated limbs, glossy green needles, and punctuated light. Comparing this tree to the stature of a man now, in its present form, is unfathomable. She continues…

Virginia: We bought the house in 1968. Our eldest daughter had her second birthday in this house.

Donna: And so what has it been like? I mean, has it been a love - hate relationship with the tree?

Virginia: Yes, sometimes. All of those little tendrils that fall—the things that it sheds every year. Although there is beauty and I love the colors and I love the shapes of them, there’s so much mess to rake up and clean off. And of course, you can see the gutters are absolutely filled.

Donna: I mean, this tree must have just dominated your landscape and your yard throughout your life here.

Virginia: Oh yes. Our neighbors come by and they say, “Tell us the story of your tree.” My middle daughter was married on that terrace that’s beneath the tree - she asked that we tell the story of the tree at her wedding. And so people have asked about the story about Shorty Jones.

Donna: So your daughter got married under the tree and probably learned to walk underneath the tree.

Virginia: Oh yes.
Donna: And you have a really lovely patio built encircling the tree. Has that shrunk as the tree has grown?
Virginia: Let me tell you. We have cut away that patio to give the tree more space about five times. Oh, my goodness. And the last one, it was so difficult, that we decided not to put the wood all the way around where it was before. Because we were just losing so much deck all the time. So we let this one, this part, be free of the deck so that we didn’t have to cut away as much.

The dawn redwood sharing space with Virginia’s home

Donna: So at any point in time, did you ever consider the… alternative of allowing the tree to live here?

Virginia: No. No. It’s like—the tree has its own life, and we just had to adjust to one another. When we chose this property, this tree was already here. And so – the tree grew, and we grew. We grew this way. The tree grew this way.

Donna: What a beautiful sentiment.

During my last landscaping visit I was more vocal than usual about being knee-deep in needle debris for the third time that month, and so Virginia invited me inside to see a piece of artwork hanging on her kitchen wall. This was probably in part to provide me with a moment of relief, but also to help connect me with a bigger picture. I ask her about it…

Donna: Can you tell me about the poem about the redwood tree hung up in your kitchen.

Virginia: Yes, would you like to see it?

Donna: I’d love to!

Virginia: Of course. Excuse me. [getting up] I just have to get my balance.

[She makes her way inside and carefully lifts the heavy framed painting off the wall, kindly declining my offer of assistance]

The poem was written by a very well-known young living American poet. Her name is Jane Hirshfield. Oh, this is very fun. A little reminder. My youngest daughter is a poet. And she has admired this woman’s poetry, her work, for years.

This was a Christmas gift to me by my grandson—a very talented artist. And he did all of the artwork here. And he found Jane Hirschfield’s poem, and he said, oh, Grandma, this is just perfect.

She holds up a large greyscale watercolor painting. In the background, a treeline of conifers gently slopes down and divides the painting in two—the light grey sky, complete with a smudge of fluffy grey clouds, and the darker grey, butte-like earth below. In the foreground to the left, uniting the earth and sky, is a towering redwood etched in black. And to the right of that, the poem transcribed in small, neat handwriting.

Since we don’t have the rights to share the poem here, I’ll paraphrase it for you, but I must warn you, I have absolutely no place paraphrasing poetry. As in, I do not have the skills necessary to transpose the enormity of Jane Hirshfield’s meaning into a quick paraphrase. Luckily the poem is easily found with a google search, and it really does deserve a gander.

It’s about the foolishness of allowing a young redwood to grow next to a house. How even in a lifetime, the tree will force you to choose between it, a ‘great calm being’ and your home, with its ‘clutter of soup pots and books’.

Donna: Do you dream about redwoods?

Virginia: I eat my meals looking out of my windows at my trees. And I can’t see the redwood from there. I see the sunburst locust. I see the dogwood from the side. I see the hollies. But when I step out of the door…there it is. The redwood encompasses everything. We’re all sheltered by it.

Donna: It feels like a totally different microclimate under here. Earlier, when I walked around it, it felt so much colder. You’re in a little cocoon here.

Virginia: Yes.

Donna: It really is a marvelous tree. And I’ve been landscaping for you for a few months now, and I understand the amount of work that you have to deal with when you harbor such a giant. Just the amount of needles that I’ve raked up in that small period of time…

Virginia: Yes. It’s the way it’s always been. And every season…oh, hold on, I’m listening. There is a hummingbird somewhere around. I hear its little buzzy sounds. See, the trees are my friends as well as the birds. And it must—oh, I’m watching a squirrel climb up now.

Donna: There must be so many critters supported by this thing.

Virginia: That’s right.

Donna: Well Virginia, it has been really beautiful to hear about your story and your life shared with this tree. Thank you.

Virginia: You’re welcome, Donna. Thank you for asking me because it’s important to me. And Mr. Shorty Jones, we think of you every time we think about the tree.

It’s so telling to me that when I asked for her to dish on the debris-felling giant slowly swallowing up her porch, roof, and yard, Virginia got distracted by nature. Instead of falling into a wallow-pit of all of the complaints she must surely have about the tree, (I myself have had them many a time and I’m only her landscaper) she chose to focus on the gifts that the tree bestows. A porch free of wind in winter and cool with shade in summer, vertical habitat shooting hundreds of feet into the sky that ushers in a myriad of grateful creatures, and a random rodeo man showing up at her door and beguiling her and her family with tales of his exploits and fond memories of his boyhood.

Now, I’m not implying that you go out and plant a someday-to-be massive tree entirely too close to a structure. Nor am I trying to convince you not to remove one that already exists. Houses aren’t cheap, and if it comes down to a tree or the house it’s engulfing, I’m probably going to be team house.

But maybe, just maybe, seen with Virginia’s eyes, one can find a deeper connection with the plant beings who are giving us strife. While raking vexing little tendrils for the 40 thousandth time this year, we can, like Virgina, allow ourselves to become distracted by the beauty of the shapes, and the ‘buzzy little sounds’ of the hummingbirds, and the speculation of what the tree would speak about if it could - a baby’s first steps, a holy union, a squirrel family-feud, a famed rodeo rider…

Donna Avallone is the creator of Over the Fence Tours, sharing beautiful views from unique and exceptional local gardens, parks, aquascapes, farms, and more. If you would like more stories of gardeners and their gardens with Donna, visit www.overthefencetours.com

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