The Secret of the Old Crabapple Tree

The Secret of the Old Crabapple Tree


The memories of my childhood are full of days spent in the warm, sultry, summer sun of rural Alabama. It was an era when children could be children, and had a freedom of time and leisure that seems to no longer exist. The days consisted of time spent playing make-believe and pretense. One day you could be a famous doctor finding a cure for polio; the next, on stage with Elvis singing “Jail House Rock” to thousands of adoring fans. Anything was possible in the long, hot, hazy days. Memories also include my mother, continuously cleaning house, washing clothes, or canning vegetables day after day to provide for her family of seven. Our role, in this daily drudgery of housework, was simply to stay out of her hair, so my sister and I, along with any number of the neighborhood children, tended to escape to the old crabapple tree in my grandmother’s front yard.

The old tree was not very tall, but its branches grew in such a fashion that it provided at least five suitable seats for the first who were able to climb the fastest. It became a race between us and the other children of the community to see who could get the best seat. Of course, the old statement, “This is my grandmother’s tree!” always provided my sister and me with the two best seats. Once seated on your favorite limb provided you with a certain stature or importance that was the envy of the neighborhood. It was not uncommon for some of the more disgruntled children to throw a rock or two just for spite.

The lure of the tree was twofold. First, our father forbade us to climb the old tree, stating that we would damage the limbs and cause the tree to stop bearing fruit, and/or we might possibly fall and hurt ourselves. (You might notice which reason was stated first.) Second, the welcoming shape of the old limbs, the sweet smell of the crabapple blossoms, and the tart taste of the crabapples were enough for us to totally disregard his warning, although the anonymity that the lush clusters of blossoms and leaves provided as we lounged in our selected spots was reason in itself. Once settled on one of the old crooked limbs we were secluded from the rest of the world. We shared secrets, sang from the top of our lungs, and talked about our favorite singers or movie stars. A lot of dreams were sprouted from within the confines of the aromatic blossoms which provided closeness and friendships that have lasted throughout the years.

Our mother and grandmother, of course, knew we were in the tree. They even contributed to our secret by providing sustenance by means of an old coffee can tied to a string, which usually consisted of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Kool-Aid. Around lunch time, one of them would knock on the trunk of the tree, we would lower the can, and lunch would be pulled back up and handed out. Sometimes, it would be just my sister and me and our mother would put something special, like a Little Debbie cake, in the can. Those were the days that we enjoyed the most.

The neighbors also knew our secret because of the late afternoon concerts that they were privileged to hear. Lyrics of She Loves You, Blue Swede Shoes, and We’re the Monkees, floated throughout our small community on a daily basis. Sometimes, with the help from an old portable radio, we were even accompanied with music. No one ever complained, even on the days when we sang for hours. I wonder now if it was because we were actually that good, or if life was just so boring in our little community, that we contributed a little entertainment.

The only person who did not know our secret was our father. The position of the old crabapple tree allotted us the privilege of hearing and seeing his car when he turned off the main road onto our community’s small lane. The way daddy drove his 1959 Ford Fairlane made it impossible not to be able to hear him coming. In his heart, he was always racing against Charles “Red” Farmer or Donnie Allison, and of course, was always the winner. This daily attempt at the checkered flag allowed us enough time to scramble down and seat ourselves on the steps of our grandmother’s porch by the time he pulled into our driveway. We often wondered why he never found it strange that we were always sitting on Mamaw’s porch every day right at the time when he came home in each evening. (The secret was only shared with Daddy after we were grown and safe from punishment.)

As with life, however, we eventually outgrew the old crabapple tree, and as with life, death eventually comes. As the years passed, the old tree began to lose its luster and eventually failed to bear the sweet and tart fruit of days gone by. I remember visiting my mom and dad and wondering why the old tree looked so sickly and being told that it was dying and had to be cut down for safety’s sake. I remember watching as my father cut down and burned the old tree and feeling so sad that something that had played such an important part of my childhood would no longer be there. I had hopes that my children would be able to climb within the sweet smelling blossoms and find the peace and serenity that I had experienced, but this was not to be.

With the dying of the old crabapple tree, memories came back of time spent wondering and planning and preparing for life; memories of time with friends and family that can never be replaced or duplicated. Even though the old tree died, it lives forever in those areas of my mind where I still look forward to each new day while cherishing the past. The secret of the old crabapple tree consists of the smells, the sounds, and feeling of freedom that I experienced as a child. Upon the old crooked limbs that part of me that dreamed and hoped came alive. Within the sweet smelling blossoms, I established a sense of freedom that only happens with the coming of age; and with the death of the tree, the end of an era and the beginning of a new one. These are the memories that I share with my children and my grandchildren. These are memories that will last a lifetime.