Gadora’s own childhood backyard was home to the biggest sycamore tree I had ever laid eyes upon. It was the only sycamore tree I remember in the neighborhood, and I remember it well.
On a trip from Alabama, my Granddaddy Turner put me up a rope swing, complete with wooden seat. I adored the way the woodpeckers pecked perfect rows around the tree, like stacked beaded necklaces as far up as one could see. There were some outrageous fights between my mother and I as she’d plead with me to rake our yard. With a refusal heavy in attitude and as earnest as any junior high person could muster, I’d snip… “It’s not MY TREE. I didn’t buy this house.” And later, with leaves as big as dinner plates, they’d sometimes blow by me whilst on campus, even though my high school was nearly 15 houses away.
Now as an adult whenever I pass a sycamore, my memories flood me and I find I rather miss mine. It was a surprise to stumble onto an article about a man who built his home addition around his. I love EVERYTHING about this house (except the brown leather sofa) and again today, I’m reminded of the crunchy sound the leaves would make under the patter of my own two feet.