When it comes to trees, my mother’s Cherokee blood really goes to work inside me. I don’t just like trees; I fall passionately in love with them.
When I hear sneering references to “tree huggers,” I feel so sorry for the person. It is so pitiful to see a soulless humanoid. If you are open to it, hugging a tree transmits great energy to the core of your being. It comes all the way from the deepest roots to the center sap of the tree, and you can feel its strength become yours.
Mother developed emphysema at 55 from years of allergies and respiratory problems, and one of the few ways she got some relief was to walk among the trees and take in the oxygen. We had 27 apple trees, and she was always planting a new tree. I saw her go from difficult breathing to serenity many times by being among the trees.
I remember her fussing with the EPB people who would come every year or two to trim limbs around their electric lines. She loved “Oakie,” a huge tree in our front yard and would tell them just how far they could go with their trim job. It was like her maternal instinct had flared up on her as some intruder threatened one of her children.
We all loved Oakie. Her lovely, strong limbs always provided us with a great swing, and we would swing out far enough to glimpse the entire apple orchard.