Peck and the beanstalk

One thing our dad had in abundance was curiosity. Even into his ninth decade, he kept some of his boyish playfulness.

Take this tree at the edge of the road in front of their house. When it got to be about nine feet tall, Mom wanted him to prune it so it didn't look like a beanpole. He, as usual, resisted, insisting that he just wanted to see what it would do if it were left alone. He wanted to see how tall it would get, whether it would fall over in a storm, or if it would one day reach the sky.

I thought of it as Peck's beanstalk and wondered if it was magic.

When he died last October, it was Rita who took a piece of his beloved tree and tucked it into his casket. The tree, after all, spoke volumes about our dad. While our momma cared a lot about what the neighbors would think, Dad just plain didn't give a rip. He thought his tree looked grand, and, you know, when I'd visit the house and look ahead for the place I'd make my turn into the driveway, that tree became my marker.

Rita and Don took this picture when the leaves turned this fall, and I have to think that Dad would be quite proud of his beanstalk. Looks to me like it's going to reach the sky after all.