Still Growing
"Bye!" she murmured, and closed her apartment door.
"Did she just say, 'good-bye'?" the rocking chair (RC) giggled, still moving a bit. Miss had jumped out so fast, R.C. was still swaying a bit, even after the door closed. "Boy, it feels so good to stretch," R.C. sighed as her movement slowed." "Miss doesn't sit enough."
"Hmph," mumbled the bookshelf. "You don't need to brag. We all know she touches you a lot more often than the rest of us."
"You're full of B.S." R.C. giggled.
"No, I'm not, that's just what you call me. B.S. makes about as much sense as a name as R.C. does for you." B.S. snorted.
Thump. One of the books on B.S. fell over, now lying flat on the shelf.
"Oof, why'd you do that for, I.M.?" B.S. grumbled.
"I had to do something to get your attention! Stop bickering. It's Sunday, and you know what that means. Time for stories!" I.M. squeaked. "Story time, story time!"
"I'm full of stories." B.S. insisted.
"Of course you are, books have stories, but let's do what we did last week. Let's tell our stories. It's fun!" I.M. replied cheerfully.
"I'm in. It's not like I'm moving again anytime soon. What's the idea this week?" R.C. asked.
"Hmm...well, like you said, moving. Where were you before we moved into the apartment?" I.M. inquired.
"A furniture factory. Short story." B.S. chuckled.
"We weren't always boards you know," R.C. took on a more thoughtful tone.
"Boards or papers..." I.M. interrupted.
"Oh yeah, papers, sorry, I.M. No offence." R.C. said.
"None taken. You first, B.S." I.M. replied.
"Well, you all may not realize but I'm not from around here. I don't mean, not from NYC, I mean, I'm not from the U.S. Before I was boards, I lived in Latin America. I was from a big family, the Mahoganys. Between our whispering leaves and our linked roots, we were always trading the local gossip. I loved being part of the family. So much security, you know? I grew up and oh ... " B.S.'s voice trailed off.
"You miss someone?" R.C. whispered.
"I had grown so tall and strong. The day the axes came, the day they came, it wasn't enough that they took me, they.... Just chop, chop, chop, jagged uneven cuts right through all those careful layers of my trunk. Do you know how long it takes to keep a trunk diary like that, do you? Seriously, it's so hard. The story of my forest life, written layer by layer and now, now, just look at me! Look at me! If you were trying to read this, I just look like these disjointed letters and words. I promise you, I wrote it so carefully. I used to make sense, my history, my life... used to make sense." B.S. seemed on the verge of shouting or tears, it was hard to tell which.
"You said, it wasn't enough that they took you... they...?" I.M. prompted.
"They trampled my seedlings. So small. I had sheltered them, dripped only the best rain drops through. I was so proud of their growth! I just knew they were going to succeed. The season before, the drought had taken my babies, but this crop... trampled. They never even had a chance. I sent them as much nutrients as I could, quickly through our root system, as they chopped, but ... I doubt any of them made it." B.S. choked on her words.
"We all did what we could." R.C. whispered.
"And only stories remain ...." I.M. murmered.
They had not realized the passage of time. B.S.'s voice had drowned out the ticking of the clock by which they lived their lives. Tick, tick, tick, such a quite life after the excitement and noise of the squirrels and birds they left behind in their childhood forests.
Their conversation stopped abruptly as the key turned, and the apartment door swung open. "I've been waiting all day for this," Miss sighed, dropping her briefcase and sinking gratefully into R.C.
Miss grabbed I.M. who stifled a squeal.
R.C. rocked Miss gently and steadily, imagining in her mind that she was swaying yet again in the wind of her far away maple forest. The longing for the bright company of her fellow maples, clothed in star-shaped leaves of red and yellow, caused R.C. to squeak a little as Miss rocked, but Miss never seemed to notice.
Miss read, her imagination communing with the words on the page, as I.M. breathed out as much life as she could through her pages, the energy she used mixed with Miss's thoughts until whole worlds were becoming clearer and clearer in the air of fantasy. Together they dreamed and breathed, I.M. enjoying the only way she could grow now. Up and up in flights of fancy, it wasn't a trunk that could stand, but as long as Miss was reading, I.M. grew and stretched in dreams.
"Funny how reading makes me feel less lonely," Miss sighed, shutting I.M. and leaving for her shower.
"I don't know why she thinks she does it alone," I.M. sighed. "I guess it's my life. Always looked at, but never seen."
"Why do we call you I.M. again?" R.C. whispered.
"Because you judge a book by her cover, apparently," I.M. giggled. Plain as the nose on Miss's face, they all could read her title, "Idol Musings."
The writers write, the pages whisper, the chair rocks. All begun by the sharp, swift blade of an axe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ideas on tree communication from:
https://e360.yale.edu/features/exploring_how_and_why_trees_talk_to_each_other
Some info on tree trunk records:
https://www.climate.gov/news-features/blogs/beyond-data/how-tree-rings-tell-time-and-climate-history
"Did she just say, 'good-bye'?" the rocking chair (RC) giggled, still moving a bit. Miss had jumped out so fast, R.C. was still swaying a bit, even after the door closed. "Boy, it feels so good to stretch," R.C. sighed as her movement slowed." "Miss doesn't sit enough."
"Hmph," mumbled the bookshelf. "You don't need to brag. We all know she touches you a lot more often than the rest of us."
"You're full of B.S." R.C. giggled.
"No, I'm not, that's just what you call me. B.S. makes about as much sense as a name as R.C. does for you." B.S. snorted.
Thump. One of the books on B.S. fell over, now lying flat on the shelf.
"Oof, why'd you do that for, I.M.?" B.S. grumbled.
"I had to do something to get your attention! Stop bickering. It's Sunday, and you know what that means. Time for stories!" I.M. squeaked. "Story time, story time!"
"I'm full of stories." B.S. insisted.
"Of course you are, books have stories, but let's do what we did last week. Let's tell our stories. It's fun!" I.M. replied cheerfully.
"I'm in. It's not like I'm moving again anytime soon. What's the idea this week?" R.C. asked.
"Hmm...well, like you said, moving. Where were you before we moved into the apartment?" I.M. inquired.
"A furniture factory. Short story." B.S. chuckled.
"We weren't always boards you know," R.C. took on a more thoughtful tone.
"Boards or papers..." I.M. interrupted.
"Oh yeah, papers, sorry, I.M. No offence." R.C. said.
"None taken. You first, B.S." I.M. replied.
"Well, you all may not realize but I'm not from around here. I don't mean, not from NYC, I mean, I'm not from the U.S. Before I was boards, I lived in Latin America. I was from a big family, the Mahoganys. Between our whispering leaves and our linked roots, we were always trading the local gossip. I loved being part of the family. So much security, you know? I grew up and oh ... " B.S.'s voice trailed off.
"You miss someone?" R.C. whispered.
"I had grown so tall and strong. The day the axes came, the day they came, it wasn't enough that they took me, they.... Just chop, chop, chop, jagged uneven cuts right through all those careful layers of my trunk. Do you know how long it takes to keep a trunk diary like that, do you? Seriously, it's so hard. The story of my forest life, written layer by layer and now, now, just look at me! Look at me! If you were trying to read this, I just look like these disjointed letters and words. I promise you, I wrote it so carefully. I used to make sense, my history, my life... used to make sense." B.S. seemed on the verge of shouting or tears, it was hard to tell which.
"You said, it wasn't enough that they took you... they...?" I.M. prompted.
"They trampled my seedlings. So small. I had sheltered them, dripped only the best rain drops through. I was so proud of their growth! I just knew they were going to succeed. The season before, the drought had taken my babies, but this crop... trampled. They never even had a chance. I sent them as much nutrients as I could, quickly through our root system, as they chopped, but ... I doubt any of them made it." B.S. choked on her words.
"We all did what we could." R.C. whispered.
"And only stories remain ...." I.M. murmered.
They had not realized the passage of time. B.S.'s voice had drowned out the ticking of the clock by which they lived their lives. Tick, tick, tick, such a quite life after the excitement and noise of the squirrels and birds they left behind in their childhood forests.
Their conversation stopped abruptly as the key turned, and the apartment door swung open. "I've been waiting all day for this," Miss sighed, dropping her briefcase and sinking gratefully into R.C.
Miss grabbed I.M. who stifled a squeal.
R.C. rocked Miss gently and steadily, imagining in her mind that she was swaying yet again in the wind of her far away maple forest. The longing for the bright company of her fellow maples, clothed in star-shaped leaves of red and yellow, caused R.C. to squeak a little as Miss rocked, but Miss never seemed to notice.
Miss read, her imagination communing with the words on the page, as I.M. breathed out as much life as she could through her pages, the energy she used mixed with Miss's thoughts until whole worlds were becoming clearer and clearer in the air of fantasy. Together they dreamed and breathed, I.M. enjoying the only way she could grow now. Up and up in flights of fancy, it wasn't a trunk that could stand, but as long as Miss was reading, I.M. grew and stretched in dreams.
"Funny how reading makes me feel less lonely," Miss sighed, shutting I.M. and leaving for her shower.
"I don't know why she thinks she does it alone," I.M. sighed. "I guess it's my life. Always looked at, but never seen."
"Why do we call you I.M. again?" R.C. whispered.
"Because you judge a book by her cover, apparently," I.M. giggled. Plain as the nose on Miss's face, they all could read her title, "Idol Musings."
The writers write, the pages whisper, the chair rocks. All begun by the sharp, swift blade of an axe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ideas on tree communication from:
https://e360.yale.edu/features/exploring_how_and_why_trees_talk_to_each_other
Some info on tree trunk records:
https://www.climate.gov/news-features/blogs/beyond-data/how-tree-rings-tell-time-and-climate-history