Springing Forth

Living in a renovated one-room schoolhouse in Connecticut, we’ve always felt like stewards of the history that surrounds us. For years, an ancient apple tree stood sentinel in our yard, its boughs heavy with the most delicious red fruit. We often imagined many generations of schoolchildren playing in its shade or reaching for a snack during recess.

The tree was the heartbeat of our yard in every season. We loved the delicate blossoms of spring and the birds that nested in its heights all summer. By autumn, it gave us a copious harvest. My three children would set up the ladder, each climbing to find the tastiest fruit they could reach, while the fallen apples on the ground drew so many bees that walking beneath the branches became a delicate, tricky dance.

But nature has its own timeline. Following a fierce New England nor’easter, our beloved tree toppled over. It was a miracle it had stood as long as it did; we discovered the trunk was completely hollow inside. While we tried to plant a new apple tree in its place, it never took root.

I realized then that I had to preserve its memory myself. I began a painting of that magnificent tree to hang over the fireplace in our kitchen—the heart of our home. As I painted, the vision grew into a trio: three apple trees in bloom in a sunlit meadow, standing strong against a backdrop of evergreens. One for each of my darling kids. The physical tree may be gone, but in the version I created, it lives on and blooms forever.