In the abundant summer, mature trees unveil themselves in all their power, ferociously alive, brilliantly vigorous and stretching up. Those that stand alone are particularly stunning, with their strong supports and barky architecture. There are groves sometimes, too, in old farmsteads, which out-tower and out-power human artifacts, and provide graceful shade to the present and the past. These old trees have seen us come and go; they take the long view.
The tree pictured here is a catalpa, which caught my eye this week near a small town library I frequent. Its mature height is forty to sixty feet. The Arbor Day Foundation calls its flowers “somewhat fragrant”. I must beg to differ. A short street near my childhood home was lined with catalpas, and their bloom time marked the beginning of summer neighborhood freedom, as its long bean-like seed pods meant its peak. Maybe that massing of trees made their fragrance more concentrated; maybe the world was just more sweet. If I’m imagining a memory, it is mis-labeled. The short street was called Hawthorne Lane, and I went nearly a lifetime thinking its occupants were hawthorne trees.
This library tree doesn’t require a name. It is blooming in glory right now, indifferent to our regard, ‘somewhat fragrant’, certainly showy, each flower complex and lightly striped and perfectly shaped for its purpose. The poet John Ciardi called this moment “the catalpa’s white week.” It is good to take comfort in the details of the world.
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Photo by the author.