It was a stick. His broad smile clearly indicated his satisfaction as he proudly proclaimed he got it at such a bargain price. It looked like a stick — a dead stick poking out of a small round burlap sack filled with soil. It was supposed to be the maple tree he had been wanting for quite some time and he got it dirt cheap. Life couldn’t be better. Laughing, his daughter said, “Dad, you paid for a dead stick!” Undaunted by the laughter and teasing from his daughter and wife, he carefully planted it in the front yard and lovingly protected and nurtured it, always confident it would blossom into the maple tree of his dreams. His daughter continued to laugh because, to her, it was still a dead stick!

Forty some years later, that dead stick has branched out in many directions, provides shade for a portion of the house, serves as home to flocks of birds and a playground for squirrels, and has been carefully pruned and trimmed away from utility lines on numerous occasions. It has survived the weight of winter snows and ice storms, exceptionally high winds and gas leaks in close proximity to its roots. It has outlived the person whose loving hands planted it and serves as a sweet reminder of the gentle man who was happiest in his yard, planting a vegetable garden, observing and feeding the birds, training a wild squirrel to take food from his hand and rescuing a baby bunny whose nest was raided by a predator cat and feeding it from a tiny baby doll bottle until it was strong enough to release back into nature. It remains “Pete’s Tree” and anyone who does any yard work near it or prunes or trims it, hears the story of its beginnings, how special it is and woe to them if any harm comes to it while under their care.

Pete departed this earth 13 years ago, passing on June 10th, buried on June 14th (Flag Day — appropriate for a WWII vet who served under Patton). Father’s Day followed four days later and all the emotion and exhaustion of the difficult last 6 months of his life caught up with his daughter. She wanted nothing to do with Father’s Day in any way, but, in the end, found some peace in the day when she brought St. Francis home to live under Pete’s tree. St. Francis is known as a patron saint of animals and is often pictured with birds on his shoulder, in his hand or at his feet. Pete, as mentioned earlier, loved nature and animals, but he was most devoted to birds.

He owned numerous bird houses and feeders over the years and could sit for hours watching them go about life in his yard, disappointed when the wrens skipped a season or two using the house he had built for them to nest and bring their babies into the world. He delighted in sharing his knowledge of each species, with hummingbirds, cardinals and sparrows (sputsys) among his favorites. He was devoted as anyone to feeding them during winter months and developed a meticulous system of filling the feeders with what he had determined were their favorite variety of seeds. His daughter got a kick out of his routine, and, in later years, as his health deteriorated, became his assistant. Trips to the feed store were dispatched with specific instructions as to what seeds to buy, how many bags of each, etc. NO simple one bag of a commercial mixture for Pete’s birds! Like a gourmet chef at his best, Pete bought only the finest of their favorites, carefully layering each individual seed variety in order of favorability. It was a long process during which his elderly selective hearing loss totally ignored his daughter’s expression of impatience and comments as to the birds pickiness and the lecture they should be grateful they have something to eat! He then spent the next several hours waging war against the squirrels who raided the feeders and destroyed his masterpiece presentation. It should be noted that, for several winters after his passing, his once impatient daughter bought separate bags of seed and meticulously arranged them layer by layer just as her dad had done for all those years. For a brief time, she also fought the raiding squirrels, but eventually surrendered in a battle she knew she could never win. The birds survived just fine eating what the squirrels spilled all over the ground.

He was named after St. Peter, rock of the church and keeper of the keys to the gates of Heaven, but he could have easily worn the name of Francis as well. So, on that first Father’s Day without him, his daughter set out on a mission to find St. Francis and bring him home to live under Pete’s tree. Visits to just about every garden or statuary center in this neck of the woods met with disappointment. Though plenty of statues to choose from, they all seemed cold and lifeless, made out of some dull grey concrete-like substance. All of these St. Francis looked much too serious and were pitifully scrawny. He looked –well, like a statue — no personality whatsoever. Finally, in the last section of the last garden center stood THE PERFECT St. Francis, the last one in stock! — colorful, a tad plump and if one looked closely, the slightest hint of a mischievous smile. He looked human– he looked warm and gentle holding a small dish for feed with a simple bird at the dish and one at his foot — he had personality!

Much too heavy for his wife and daughter to unload, neighbors came to the rescue putting him in his new place of honor, residing under Pete’s tree. For 13 years, Francis has brought us joy. For 13 years, our neighbors have shared a seasonal ritual bringing him indoors for the winter months and taking him back to the tree just in time for spring blossoms, baby bird births and earth’s renewal. Each morning, Francis and the tree greet us as we look out the window and gives us a sense of peace as we say goodnight. And, somewhere in Heaven, I suspect a guy named Pete takes a break from preparing the next day’s meal for God’s birds and smiles down and says goodnight as well.

Peace,
Kathy Marie