My dad's new book just came out, and I love it so much. I mean, when you have Mer on the cover of your book, how can you go wrong. This was one of my favorite essays, although there were several that were lovely, and several that I loved that were about Meron. Published with permission (if you want permission or to purchase a book, go to
www.independentlyspeaking.com )
" Over a quarter of a century ago I planted a tree.
I've planted a lot of trees in my life, but this was a black walnut tree planted in honor of the birth of one of my daughters. It's straight east of the house, where the branches frame the morning sun as I sit in my office. It's the first thing I see every day.
About ten years ago a horizontal branch about six feet off the ground caught my eye. When I pruned that year, I left that branch alone. It seemed to me that sooner or later I would have a grandchild, and that grandchild would need a swing.
Over the next decade the branch got
thicker and stronger. I would give it a tug in passing every now and then. About three years ago I decided the branch was ready and so was I.
Of course, my opinion was not the one that mattered.
Bugging your children about the absence of grandchildren does not seem like a productive enterprise. I kept my mouth shut and the walnut tree watered.
Five years ago the child in whose honor the tree had been planted got married, standing in a pergola I'd made, right next to her walnut tree. The marriage thing made the whole grandchild thing a little more plausible. There are other priorities in life so I was patient, and if I whined I did it only to my wife and the occasional stranger, and of course every now and again I'd make announcements at family reunions. All to no avail.
But then about nine months ago the little girl I planted the walnut tree for an
d her husband went to Ethiopia and brought home a baby. They brought back coffee, too, but the baby was the big thing.
I can't describe the feeling. Standing in the airport and seeing that sleepy brown face peeking out at us was heart stopping.
I was a little concerned about bringing a child from Africa to our small town full of Scandinavians. Living the country life is our choice for a number of reasons, but when you live in a place where cultural diversity is when the Norwegians will go to an Advent Service at the Swede church you know what I mean. Was she going to blend in?
Of course, when you adopt a baby they don't really come to a place; they come to a family, with all that entails. Dogs to play with,
chickens to chase and trees just for swinging are great, but they aren't what really matter. All their lives I've relished telling our kids the stories about their ancestry. I pretty much skip over four hundred years of peasant farmers and go right to tales of Eric
Bloodaxe and his interesting personal habits. I could (and often did) go on for hours. What stories would I tell this baby when she got too big for the swing in the tree?
It wasn't long after the baby got off the plane that I went to a three day retreat at a conference center. Early one morning, unable to sleep, I was roaming the building looking for something to read. IN a meeting room, I found an old book that detailed the various ethnic groups in Africa. Out of curiosity I looked up our granddaughter's background. Her people were kind of a pain in the neck on the continent - headstrong, making trouble and sirring things up. In fact, the book described them, and I quote, as "the Vikings of Africa." All by myself at 5:00 in the morning in an empty conference room I laughed out loud.
And then I cried, a little."
