"It's very unusual to find one of these in Lincoln," said the woman, who very much wanted to sell her house to us. "The guys at Campbell's said this isn't even the right zone for it."
Yeah, whatever . . . .
I mostly zoned out during her arboreal rapture, utterly disinterested in the history behind this pile of sticks, thinking, instead, of closing costs and Zesto mixins, not necessarily in that order.
When we finally decided to plunk down the change (a quaint turn of phrase that really means "go into debt until we wear Depends"), our decision had nothing to do with that tree. In fact, one of the first things we discussed was cutting it down, since it had little appeal to us and seemed to possess the propensity of a piggish Lilac, always sending out annoying, woody feelers to extend its grasp.
Thank God we were too lazy or distracted to follow through on that thought.
Turns out that the former owner was actually telling the truth, because, that next Spring, when enough cool rains had leeched into the ground, accompanied by great swaths of warm sunshine, the thing exploded like the final firework at a Fourth-of July extravaganza. I can practically remember the very day when the Chain Tree's thousand wormy feelers transformed into stunning, citron flowers that dangled off each lithe limb, smelling like honeysuckle and sunshine.
I'd like to say that, every time I teeter on a rash decision, I think of honeysuckle and sunshine, but I don't. However, I have learned the value of sleeping on it, the wisdom that comes from letting the seasons unfold before leaping into the next big thing.
I have learned that, sometimes, the ugly duckling's just sitting on his secret, and, if I give him time, the two of us might become fast, fabulous friends.
Here's to believing in a bit more honeysuckle and sunshine this year, despite everything that we may see.
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