The Chestnut Trees
Two trees stood so tall you thought there was no end to them, that they would live forever.
Four corners of Logansport Indiana Memorial Hospital, a park like setting, and everything within, I carry in my memory.
On one corner of the grounds stands a sign marking the land as a national historical landmark and a place of burial. A mark designating the land as part of The Trail of Death. In September 1838 The Potawatomi Indians were tricked, and forced off their land. The forced March took them west across Indiana, then Illinois, and then to Kansas.
I passed this every day and would stop and read the words picturing what this meant.
Riding my bike from our new little house, was just a mile away and was my Mothers new home during a trial separation. I would then park it under a magnificent Chestnut tree on the grounds of the hospital.
Running across the vast lawns of the property, I would dash through the front doors and make my way to the second floor, where my Mother would be in a hospital bed, waiting for me.
It was just after school, and the visit was a routine highlight of my day.
It’s impossible to remember what was said, and how long these visits would last. And then she’d get tired and I was allowed to stay and play on the grounds beneath her window under the Chestnut tree.
I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to stay with her at the time, and I would leave as requested, but was never happy about it.
There was a bench placed just to the left of the Chestnut tree, and I would look up at this giant, this beautiful tree, and feel so safe. Beneath the bough of a large branch, felt as if it was protecting me. There were so many trees on the grounds, squirrels would play and it was like a beautiful spacious park. But this tree was by far the most grand and beautiful tree on the hospital grounds, and it sat just facing my Mothers hospital window.
I would call up to her window. And when she was able, she would stand at the window and wave to me.
In a small town, everyone allows this. It was never a problem. We were watched over by a group of people wherever we went. Like a community effort, knowing what Elizabeth was going through.
It was my Mothers style to expect us to be on our best behavior at all times. With a look of her eyes she kept us in line. This was not a situation to deny her this request, as I did feel sad for her, and worried about her getting better.
Those that didn’t know our situation, took no mind, no interest in my sister and I traveling through town on foot most days.
Our Grandmother would take turns with my Mothers cousins, and aunts to stay with us overnight, and many days my little sister would stay with them at home, and allow me to visit and stay all day on the hospital grounds.
And there were always the trees. When you looked up at a mature tree of over 100 years, when you placed your hands on its mighty trunk and bark, looking up through its multitude of branches, the sun shining through delicate leaves dancing, peace would come over you. And the silence would wash over you like music. Atop the silence, if you were very still, you could hear and feel the wind. You could smell it. The gentle movement of the gigantic tree would make the pleasant sound like when you move on a saddled horse.
It was alive, and it gave me a spiritual feeling and calm I’ve carried with me ever since.
A network of trees throughout the town was like a network of friends watching over us. The woods I’d walk trails through were a necessary place to be. A necessary visit, every day those woods and trees were my strength.
It was only a mile from our house. And at 6, in 1968 this was normal to travel for kids.
So it was a shock going back. Had the town shrunk so much? It has become a ghost town, but there are some who have started companies to bring the town back.
The hospital grounds no longer had any of those magnificent trees. They were gone. The tree that I had spent days and days, hours and hours beneath its unbending strength was no more, just like my Mother. A generation of living organisms that were larger than life. Rare and breathtaking.
Another such Chestnut tree also looked over my mother's burial site. And when I returned for the first time, some 50 years later to her side, found it too was gone.
There had been a blight killing off thousands and thousands of Chestnut trees in Eastern and Northern America.
A native to Eastern and South East Asia, another Chestnut species brought in during the early 1900’s to Europe and Northern America, spread this fungus, this blight and wiped most of the American Chestnut out.
The American Chestnut tree was a giant, that made the variety in the woods that much richer. I would bring home Chestnuts that had fallen and keep them in my room, and always kept one with me in my pocket. I carried so many at times, they became so familiar to me, they became like a part of me. I can see it in my mind. With its dark brown smooth shiny shell, and the light tan patch where it had pulled all its strength from its original source. It’s Mother Tree.
When a giant tree dies, many should be planted to replace this loss. Think of them as the offspring of a once mighty giant. Small saplings to be raised, nurtured, and cared for, to see that the land always has a healthy future of young trees. That the burdens of their ancestors will not weight them down. That with help, locals close by, can keep a maternal eye, just by being there.
That the next generation is raised with the knowledge of what was here before. Who walked here on this same spot?
There were around 300 Native American Indians who also perished around the grounds of the hospital. Mostly women and children who suffered during the forced March across Indiana and then to the West.
Their spirit was with me as a child, under the Chestnut tree and on the many trails I walked.
There will come a day when the next time I return, two trees will be planted. I hope they’ll allow them in the same spots they once stood.
I hope the next visit there will bring more knowledge.
©️ Julie Handy 2023