I went early to pick up the saplings she’d offered. I had a vague sense of wanting to get it over with, so gave myself a running start before I could change my mind. I assumed I’d be able to pick up the saplings by the curb or near her mailbox, but when I got to her house there was no sign of them. I parked and got out slowly, leaving the car door open - a makeshift getaway plan.
As always, I was struck by the postcard beauty of her property: the old broad barn, perfectly preserved; the 18th century clapboard house standing strong and straight and prim as its owner, its double chimneys taking no guff from centuries of New England weather. And then, the surprise! The whole scene so overrun with daffodils as to make me forget any other possible use for the color yellow.
I waited by my car for a while, admiring the view and hoping the saplings she’d offered would somehow materialize. Eventually, though, I ended up having to pull out my phone, punch in her number, suffer the indignity of phone civilities and then meet her behind the barn where the saplings were waiting in marked burlap bags.
Barbara is a no-nonsense woman and when I am with her, and under her cold blue scrutiny, I feel like an all-nonsense woman. Her manner ranges from brusque to bruising and in her presence I find myself checking that my shirttails are tucked in and for bits of kale between my teeth. I don’t know what particular power she possesses, but her steady gaze tells me she knows there are currently at least five dirty socks on my bedroom floor and that I leave my peanut butter jar right out on the counter for easy access. She has the power of my first-grade teacher, Sister Thomas Joseph, to make me feel befuddled and ridiculous and insubstantial. I may be all of these things indeed, but I generally don’t walk around feeling that way.
I wanted to grab the saplings and head home, but she was hungry for conversation. She pointed her blue lasers at me and fired away: How was I? Had I gained weight? What was I doing for work these days? Some kind of computer business, is it? I couldn’t tell if they were questions or accusations, so, instead of answering, I commented on the enormous maple tree that dominated the land behind her property. Although it was easily fifty yards away, I could feel its nobility. She turned to look at it and then back at me. “That’s the largest maple in this area,” she said, and I could see that fact gave her no pleasure. She bore down on me with the full weight of her gaze and said, “I lie awake nights thinking it will fall down on us in our sleep.”
This was too much; I couldn’t bear the thought of this particular tree bringing anything but pleasure. I stepped back and tried to gauge the distance between the maple and the house. I opened my mouth to suggest that the tree was unlikely to reach the house if it were to fall, but I stopped myself short. This was a woman who did not engage with theories or estimates; she traded solely in facts. I let my words transform into a smile instead, and as always, Barbara met my smile with an instant request for its meaning.
“I’m just thinking how keen I am to get these saplings into the ground.”
“Well, then,” she said, pleased, no doubt, that I would be engaged in some honest work for once. “Off you go.”
And off I went, following a trail of daffodils toward my open car door.