There’s a quote that comes up every so often that says, ‘cannot see the forest for the trees.’ For me, it means that when someone is solely focused on a singular or inconsequential detail, they are so preoccupied with it that they are missing the larger picture in front of them.
In this day and age of information overload, distracting technology, difficulty comprehending current events, and packed schedules and deadlines, it’s pretty easy to become sidetracked and lost in the woods without even knowing how you got there.
As the year 2023 concludes and winter begins to settle in, a couple of weeks ago, I looked out at my backyard through a large picture window in my den and watched a single leaf falling off the branch of my next-door neighbor’s 60-foot maple tree as it gracefully floated down into my yard. Only then did I notice that the entire yard was carpeted in a spectrum of fading colors and that the surrounding trees were nearly bare. “When did that happen?” I thought. “Plenty of raking ahead of me, but what’s the rush?” I asked myself.
The next morning, a neighbor across the street came outside shortly after dawn with her electric leaf blower, whisking every single leaf that had blown onto her property off into the street. A few hours later, most of them blew right back, and she returned outside once again with her trusty leave blower. She doesn’t care much for leaves and can be seen blowing them away multiple times a day from November into December.
Trees, to me, are life, like the sunshine and fresh air and a good dog charging through piles of foliage as I rake on a perfectly crisp fall day. Dogs live in the moment, and like trees, they bring joy and color into life and a history all their own.
In autumn, the most colorful tree in my yard is a Moonfire Japanese Maple tree. I received this flaming red beauty as a sapling from the daughter of a gentleman who was a flight instructor for the WASP (Women Airforce Service Pilots) during World War II, Frank Duffy. After the war, he was a Pan American World Airways captain, retiring after 36 years of service, logging 30,000 hours of flight time.
The sapling that his daughter Denise gave me as a gift after her father’s death in 2006 had first sprouted in her dad’s yard, and after I received it, I planted it in my backyard and named it after him… Frank. I like to name things I cherish after those who were once or are now dear to me.
Today, 12 years after planting Frank, the sapling stands over 15 feet tall. At the height of its brilliance, which only lasts about two weeks in November, it is ablaze with vibrant color before shedding its crimson leaves and regenerating the soil surrounding its perimeter. But even after its leaves fall and fade away, its color remains with me all year round.
