The Old Cedar Tree

It was during the storm that dark summer night that the old tree fell.  Upon hearing of it, memories swirled in the minds of children’s children—and a sadness for that old tree that had stood as a sentinel by the house for so many generations of our family.

When had it been planted? Was it already there when the house had been built in 1844, or was it planted sometime later? No one really knew. The earliest photo we can find, taken around 1940, shows a full-grown, gray-barked tree, scarred and aged-looking—much the same as it did in later generations.

In the minds of the living it had always been there –gnarled, stubs of branches removed by previous family members scarring its trunk; used even for target practice by some (as evidenced by bullets found in its trunk later at the sawmill). Wobbling at the base in every windstorm so that the ground at its base actually moved, we often, in seeing that wobble, wondered how long the old scraggly tree could continue standing near the house on the east side.

But now, in morning’s light, the old tree lay forlornly over against the porch roof, roots bare and exposed, embarrassed in death. My brother, Jack, who lives in the old farmhouse, respectfully removed the tree from the porch roof, cutting away the scraggly branches, sawing the trunk into manageable pieces, and storing them under the eaves of one of the barns where it would stay dry. There the old tree lay for another year while we pondered—what now could be done with the old tree? What could be made from that gnarly trunk?

This photo is of the author, Hannah Geddes and her little brother Jack. The year is around 1950 or 1951. Hannah would be around 4 yrs old. The cedar tree she writes about is in the background- just above the handle of the stroller

This past year, in needing some woodworking done at our house, I learned of an elderly gentleman who lived only a few miles from us and who was a wood craftsman. After seeing his expertise in the work we had him do for us, I told him about the old cedar tree and asked his opinion about what could be done. He recommended a sawmill in North Adams, and how to have it cut.

My husband, Bill, and I conveyed the tree trunk and some thicker branches to our home via a trailer and then to the sawmill to have it cut in ½ inch boards. That’s when the bullets were discovered, and some nails, as they dulled and damaged the saw blades.

I requested of our craftsman neighbor that he should make a cedar box for me. As he had shown me some of his many hand-carved boxes, I also requested some carvings on my box—one of a picture of our house on the front; another, for one end piece, a picture of the old barns which had burned down in 1966—old cow barns that I had played in as a child, and later worked in milking cows there until the early 1960s; and, for the other end of the box, a cedar frond.

At Thanksgiving this past fall I showed the box to family members and received orders from my siblings for five more just like it.

The box now sits on my dresser in the bedroom, and each time I pass by it sweetly calls to me, serving now as a memory box.  Wonderfully aromatic, it is a beautiful reminder of my rich childhood on the farm-rich, not in material wealth, but because I felt loved and needed by my parents. It serves also as a memory box for me of my spiritual journey, as I am now placing small objects in the box that are reminiscent of answered prayers and treasured memories.

Remembering… remembering…how God has led…