Cedar Waxwing on ornamental crabapple one snowy winter.

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     One little tree brought so many seasons of joy, especially during the harshness of a particularly bitter, snow-covered week. When we first moved into our new house, my father arrived with a gift—an ornamental weeping crabapple tree. Truth be known, it was rather unsightly, with awkward branches bending at odd angles and reaching not upwards towards the heavens but cascading toward the ground. It looked like it had survived some terrible terror and now had only the wear-with-all to hang, listless. 

     We planted it on the side of our house, just outside the nursery window. It took to the spot splendidly, and oh how that tree performed! As I rocked babies and recited nursery rhymes, the constant antics of fluttering of wings at the tree added a delightful layer of amusement. 

     In spring, bold, rose-colored buds shaped like tiny balloons hung in clusters from the weeping branches, slowly opening to bright pink five-petaled blossoms. When fully open, feathery yellow stamens protruded from the flower’s center whose petals transformed once again, this time into a creamy pale pink. Tucked within a bed of emerging reddish-green leaves, the tree sported a show of grand design. Bees and butterflies swarmed, gathering pollen and feasting on nectar. As the blossoms faded and fell, a snowy blanket of pink petals covered spring green grass beneath the tree—an enchanting place for toddler tea party.  

     The birds loved the tree, and many a nest was constructed within its branches, though most of the time the nests did not come to fruition (likely the result of disturbances by little hands waving at the nursery window or running beneath the tree to retrieve an errant ball).  In summer, clusters of small green fruits formed, slowly growing and gaining color so that by fall, one-inch circular fruits of deep red graced the branches, contrasting beautifully against autumn leaves.  

     But it was the winter season when the tree’s true glory showed. In its skeletal form, weeping branches of mottled reddish brown clung to clusters of dark red fruit, and the fruit persisted even through the harshest of winter temperatures. Though many accounts exist claiming the fruits are eaten by birds, I never saw any bird eating the fruit until snow covered the ground for several days. Under those circumstances, the tree became a popular bistro where bluebirds dined alongside cardinals, and juncos flitted about ignoring the mockingbird. Still more birds—blue jays, robins, wrens, and a lone white-throated sparrow joined the party, the tree’s fruits a feast for their bellies, their presence a feast for my eyes. One snow-covered day, a flock of Cedar Waxwing found their way to the tree, the first time I’d seen those striking, yellow-bellied masked marauders in my yard. One watched me intently as I peered through the window, and then flew directly at me, striking the windowpane, regaining its wits, and then flying back to the tree. I’m still not sure of its intent but it didn’t seem friendly. 

     As little feet grew into bigger feet, we needed more room and so expanded the house. Sadly, we had to remove the tree. By this time, our property was fully landscaped, with no space to plant a new one. Still, I always thought another opportunity would present itself, and I’d replant the species and recapture the joy it brought just outside of the nursery window. That’s how it works, doesn’t it? Always thinking there will be another opportunity—surely one more, just one more. But in truth, it is unlikely that we ever pass the same way twice. “Way leads on to way.” 

     One tree brought so many seasons of joy, and those pleasures only became dear once they were gone. Decades have now passed, but I still recall that snowy week when the tree sustained a rainbow of birds and taught me to appreciate each moment of nature’s moving rhythm.