About six years ago, I wrote a blog post called "Bob's Trees," after one day, my neighbor Bob told me about the trees near his house. He had lived in that house for a long time, and passed away on November 8th, 2015, after living close to 100 years.
Unfortunately, as I tried to upload a photo of a ginko leaf, the browser crashed and the entire blog post was lost.
Since then, I had always hoped that I'd remember any of the stories enough to write them down, but now six years later, I'm pretty sure I won't.
But the trees are so amazing, especially in autumn, and I want to tell their story. The story of the ginko, in front of the house that Bob said used to have a truck regularly parked on the front lawn/steps. The story of the Japanese maples. The story of the birch. But I don't remember.
What I do remember slightly are his stories of working at a bank, and of San Quentin (where his dad may have worked?). I remember they were often humorous, at times offensive or inappropriate, but interesting stories that only a 96-year old can get away with telling. Even those stories are now lost--surprising details I was sure I'd remember are now faded--something about the trunk of a car and San Quentin. Because I stopped to listen, and he took the time to share, I felt almost a responsibility to share the remarkable stories.
So I saved this draft blog post with a few notes, and every time I scroll down far enough to see it, I think I'll finally write something about Bob's Trees. Well, this is it.
So I saved this draft blog post with a few notes, and every time I scroll down far enough to see it, I think I'll finally write something about Bob's Trees. Well, this is it.
A note I made here about a dumpster--I don't remember the story I wanted to tell when I wrote the abrupt note six years ago, but after Bob died, his house was so full of unwanted stuff that a dumpster sat out front for a while, and free books sat on shelves in front of his house until the winter rains finally ended the drought and soaked the books. There was probably something really interesting or funny about the dumpster, but then I had a child and four years of new daddy brain plus two years of pandemic brain. I've been unearthing pre-pandemic layers in piles of paper, and it is striking how unfiled papers mimic geologic strata--and how quickly two years can go by, and be buried by more current matters. Like unraked ginko leaves in autumn covering organic material from last year's leaves.
