The Fringe Tree

When I was little, the fringe tree stood at the end of the breezeway, a small ornamental tree at the corner of the lawn and the driveway. My bike was in a stall off the breezeway, so I came and went by that tree every day, for all my early life. Aside from its anchor location, the tree was non-descript, …except in June.

Decades later my mom and sister were at Kennedy’s Country Gardens looking for something remarkable and durable as an anniversary gift. Nothing seemed quite right until a yard guy mentioned, “If you want some non-standard lines, check out over beyond the fruit trees”. So my sister went to explore, and mom kept looking, both hoping for inspiration from something unique. Minutes later my sister returned and said, “There’s a fringe tree over there. I told the guy we’ll take it.” “Oh, perfect!” said my mom.

So what's the big deal?

It’s the fragrance.

A yard tree needs serious consideration on its location before planting it; the tree will spend its life there. But it’s not just its own neighbors, but repeated personal interactions that really matter. We planted this new tree on the edge of our driveway, toward the barn, on a well worn path, just as getting to my wheels as a child from the breezeway was.

Walk by this tree, notice a remarkably beautiful smell, like walking unexpectedly past honeysuckle or roses or peonies in full bloom: “Wow, where did that come from?” is a common refrain; It stops you in your tracks, a pause-worthy gift. When it's blooming, step right in and enjoy a few deep breaths. So soothing. Something from God’s creation to pause, take in, and savor; appreciate the moment.

Another decade later I was trekking with my son on the Appalachian Trail just out of the Blue Ridge into the Shenandoah. He had made a detour into town for some supplies, so I was alone, cruising a ridgeline, on a crisp May morning. Out of nowhere and alone in my thoughts I smelled something so viscerally appealing, I had to pause; I had to locate its source. Having moved from the home of my childhood decades earlier, that scent was heart-stoppingly appealing, and suddenly, familiar. I knew that smell, but still not sure of its source, high on a Virginia ridge with a variety of emergent spring growth. And there stood a small, wild fringe tree! In glorious full bloom!  I came across a few more that day, high along that stretch of ridges, always alerted to their presence by my nose first, before finding, locating and stepping in for the deeper experience. Wild trees don't have the same fullness of coddled, suburban lawn trees, but the aroma was palpable and memorable; a simple pleasure, one of the highlights of a hike memorable in many other ways.

We had been away recently, and on returning home noticed our fringe tree’s first full seasonal fragrance. (It tempts you first with light emerging flowers, unscented for about a week, before opening up its bouquet fully.) I cut and brought a bunch to my mom, who still lived nearby, but confined to homestay under CV-19 sequestration. For her, it elicited memories from an earlier time. Something about that fragrance connects us to the past in delightful, breezy ways. The scents of spring. For us, the scents of home.

As I write this, a house bouquet sits close by: soothing and inspiring. Although the sensation is seasonal, temporary and fleeting, it'll be worth it to wait till next June when it graces the yard again.