My First Plant Friend

I think of my awakening to the plant world as something that didn't happen until I was a young adult. Though I don't remember being very aware of the plant kingdom, I was fortunate to be growing up on a large Iowa farm with fields and woods and hay barns to play in. I roamed the pastures with my cousin John, rafted down the Wapsinonoc Creek at the bottom of our hill, and spent many hours each day outside. John was a year older than me, and probably it was mostly John who built the platform for us in a huge tree right above the creek. From our treehouse, we tied a bag swing to one of the branches hanging over the water, and it was thrilling and a little scary to jump on the bag and swing out into the high air and look down at the creek. We also went fishing from the creek bank and sometimes brought the catch home to our mothers (who were not particularly excited to have a small fish to cook). John and I even went out to the middle of a corn field, picked the still-tiny ears of corn and ate them right there, cob and all! But I don't remember having much awareness of plants as fellow inhabitants of my world. 

However, there was one exception, my friend the weeping willow. It grew at the southwest corner of our big yard, and it was beautiful. Inside of its drooping branches, you could almost feel hidden in a leafy green hideaway. The best thing about it was that it had grown with branches almost like stair steps. Once I was able to swing up to the lowest branch, I could climb high and feel comfortable and relaxed in that safe space. I spent hours in my willow, watching the world. Whenever "company" came driving into our lane, I would run outside and climb the willow. Showing off, maybe. Or maybe just greeting our guests from a high post. It was my special place. And when I looked at it or ran toward the willow, it was as a friend.

That made it a tough day indeed when I came home from school one day to find the willow cut down. I ran into the house in anger and demanded to know why this had happened!? And my mother explained what I hadn't known: that willow trees were devastating to septic systems. They are a water-loving species, and their roots seek out and so entangle with the underground tiles that they clog this important drainage pathway. My father had probably known that the willow would have to go for months or years, but he also knew it was important to me. So he waited as long as he could. And then one day somehow the forces came together to get that tree down before I even knew it was happening. I know it pained my father to cut it. He knew how important it was to me. At the time I felt sadness that he could do such a thing. But now I only feel sympathy for him. It was one of those hard situations where his love for me conflicted with his responsibility as the caretaker of our home. In retrospect, it almost feels like a coming-of-age happening. No more willow tree. My personal safe leafy paradise was gone, and I grew up into a different childhood phase. 

The haven provided by the willow tree seemed almost magical to me, and now I know that this has been a common feeling among many people in the world. Some Native Americans even carried sprigs of willow branches with them as spiritual protectors. To other tribes, the willow symbolized longevity. And the willow is good medicine! Long ago, Hippocrates found that chewing willow bark lowered fever and reduced pain. And Edward Stone, a British minister, did experiments on the bark and leaves and isolated salicylic acid, the curative element. Unfortunately, salicylic acid tended to upset the stomach, but a later scientist created a synthetic version which was kinder - what we know as aspirin today. 

You too have probably encountered different ways in which the willow has become important for us humans. I know that baskets are made from the young growth, and willow wood has some special properties. For me, though, the weeping willow is primarily a thing of beauty, and my first real friend of the plant world.