The Fringe Tree

The Fringe tree of my childhood stood at the end of the breezeway, a small ornamental tree defining the corner of the lawn and driveway, before the barn. I kept my bike in a stall off the breezeway, so came and went by that tree every day, several times a day, for all my childhood and into early youth. Aside from its defining, anchor location, the tree was non-descript, …except in June.

A few years ago my mom and sister were at Kennedy’s Country Gardens in Scituate looking for something for an anniversary gift. Nothing really seemed right, until a yard guy mentioned, “if you want some non-standard lines, check over there, out beyond the fruit trees”. So my sister went to check it out, and my mom kept looking, both hoping to be inspired by something unique, maybe one day memorable. In a minute my sister came back and said, “There’s a fringe tree over there. I told the guy we’ll take it.” “Oh, perfect!” said my mom.

A yard tree needs serious consideration on location before planting. After all, it is going to spend its life there; but it’s not just its neighborhood, but our personal interaction that counts for more. We planted this new tree on the edge of our driveway toward the barn / garage, on a well worn daily+ path, just as getting to my wheels as a child.

It’s Ihe fragrance.

To walk by this tree and suddenly notice a beautiful smell, like walking past honeysuckle, or roses or peonies in full bloom, “Wow, where did that come from?”, a common, but unexpected, random, sense of smell. Aromas are more difficult to describe than other senses, so imagine simply, a beautiful momentary gift. In June, we always remind guests to step right in and enjoy a few deep breaths. It is soothing. Nothing else matters. Something from God’s creation to pause and take in, to savor, and simply enjoy.

A few years ago I was walking with my son on the Appalachian Trail just out of the Blue Ridge and into the Shenandoah. He and a friend had gone into town for some supplies so I was alone, ridge running on a beautiful, crisp, high pressure May morning. Out of nowhere I smelled something familiar, something I knew, something wonderful. It stops you in your tracks, such an aroma. I had stopped living at my parents’ home in June decades earlier, and even they had moved about 25 years ago, but that scent was familiar, and heart-stoppingly lovely. I looked around, not sure where this scent emerged from, high on a Virginia ridge, amidst a soft, gentle, spring breeze. And there it was, a wild fringe tree, in glorious full bloom. I saw three or four more that day on that stretch of north-south ridges, always alerted to their proximity by my nose first, before finding, seeing and stepping right in. While wild trees rarely have the same fullness of coddled, suburban lawn trees, the aroma was immediately palpable; a simple pleasure, one of the highlights of a hike memorable in so many other ways.

Last weekend we had been away, and on returning home Sunday afternoon noticed our fringe tree’s first full seasonal blossoming. (It tempts you with light emerging flowers, unscented for about a week, before opening up fully.) I immediately cut a bouquet and took them to my mom, who lives reasonably nearby, but is sequestered to the place they live for CV19 protection. For her, it was a memory from home, decades ago. Something about that fragrance that connects us to the past, and puts our present on hold.

As I write this, a bouquet sits close by. Mmmmmm. Soothing, savoring it. Although the experience is seasonal, temporary, and fleeting, we can always wait till next June.