The Last Laugh

Twenty-some years ago a friend brought over a paper bag with sticks poking out of the top. They’re maple trees, he told me. They looked more like something that wanted to be walking sticks when they grew up. There were four of them. One made it. I didn’t think too much about it when I planted it in the side yard but now it dwarfs the house. It’s too big to trim in any meaningful way; too tall to top it off. The most I can do is climb the tree every few years to lob off a branch that wants to tap the side of the house or stroke the shingles.

I’m thinking about the tree now because it’s a maple. Every year it drops seeds that do that helicopter thing as they fall to the ground. A slight gust of wind sends them further into the yard or out toward the street. They’re fun to watch. As a kid I remember using the leafy part of the seed for a whistle. I tried it this year and it still works.

Other than making whistles, Pat and I spent days watching the seeds do their spin as they fell. Thousands of little helicopters spinning toward the ground. We had a bumper crop this year. And now we have to pick them up. They’re not fun to pick up. Some of them are trying to burrow into the ground. Picking them up one by one is tedious and when I use the rake they want to cling to the grass like they were attached with Velcro. It’s a long process.

Our friend, Bob was his name, became ill last year and died. He had a laugh that was both unique and hearty. I heard it this morning when I was trying to pull seeds out of the lawn with a rake and not having a lot of success. Bob liked a good joke. Today, with a rake in my hand and half a bag of maple seeds by my side, it’s on me.