As I Wait For The Paper

The paper was late being delivered this morning.  It's snowing and I suppose that may be the reason it hasn't arrived yet.  Not having the newspaper at this moment disrupts my usual routine but today I'm okay with it.  I know full well that the weather may make me a few minutes late to work today and that no one will have a problem with it.  I'm willing to pass that understanding along to the person delivering my paper.

Normally, I'd be at the counter reading and sipping coffee.  Instead, I move to a wing-back chair near a window in the living room.  I pull the shade halfway up and settle into the chair with my coffee.  The lights are off and the room is dark enough that I get no reflection off the window glass.  From this vantage point, I can look out across my front yard.  I watch for my newspaper.  I watch the snow fall.  The house is quiet and calm.  I consider adding this ritual to my routine, even on mornings when the paper arrives early.

As I gaze out the window, I notice the trees.  They stand out dark against the snow.  We have a couple of young trees in our front yard, a maple and a crab apple.  They are the smallest of the trees I can see from my chair.  My neighbor directly across the street has a couple of medium-sized trees.  One is older and likely as big as it will ever be.  The other one, the one closest to the street, is still growing, an adolescent in tree terms.  I've watched that tree grow over the years.  I remember when it was as skinny as ours are now.  My former neighbor, T, doted over the tree, making certain its bark was amply protected in the winter and that it was adequately watered in the summer.  He attached ropes, encouraging alignment.  The tree responded, growing straight and tall.

To the left of the tree, along the driveway, is a basketball hoop.  I remember when T installed it.  It was a weekend affair and his son could hardly wait for him to finish.  The height was adjustable and initially needed to be set low.  Over the years, the height was raised as T's son grew.  The hoop was a gathering place for T's son and his friends.  I remember seeing them out there, shooting baskets and talking.  I couldn't hear their conversations but I could imagine the content - mostly superficial, sports and TV probably, but every so often a revelation, a brief glimpse of who they were.  And then back to the superficial.  That's the way boys bond, in small guarded doses.  It's a slow process but its results can be incredibly strong.

I can't say that we were really close to T and his family.  He and his wife, J, were friendly.  We'd wave if we saw each other or chat if we happened to both be in our front yards.  It was the sort of relationship we have with many of our neighbors, not particularly deep but not unpleasant.  We would sometimes go days or weeks even without seeing T or J.  Their son, shooting baskets, was the only evidence that anyone was around.  Because we saw them infrequently, it took us awhile to realize that J had left.  T and his son continued in their routine with hardly any noticeable changes.

One change I did notice was that it seemed T stopped caring about the tree.  Maybe it's just that the tree had grown large enough that it no longer needed extra attention.  Or maybe T realized his relationship with the tree was not going to be as long lasting as he'd assumed.  After his son finished high school, they moved away.  It seemed to me like they left quickly and efficiently.  One day they were there, the next they were gone.

I don't know the woman who bought T's house.  I'm quite certain that if she walked up and shook my hand I would not recognize her as a neighbor.  I doubt she owns a basketball or realizes the care that was given to the lovely tree in her front yard.  As I look at it now, I wonder about T.  I wonder where he's living and if he's dared to care for another tree.  I hope so.

Oh, there's the paper.