I love trees, especially with fall colors, and have more than two-dozen gracing my yard. But if I had to choose a favorite, it would probably be the weeping willow. In our first home, my late husband, Carl and I had a beautiful willow. In the winter, its ice-adorned branches resembled a giant chandelier. Remembering the beauty of that tree years later, I rescued a scrawny, willow sapling from a nursery closeout sale. Carl laughed when I hauled it from the car. I told him it would grow. On occasion, he humored me by putting a little fertilizer around the base.
By the second summer it had doubled in size, but still being fragile, the trunk snapped when a group of rowdy boys tackled each other—and the tree—while playing football. Carl had a saw in hand, ready to finish off my little willow when I again came to the rescue. He tried without success to convince me the tree, its top half touching the ground and barely attached to the trunk, could not be saved.
“You can’t cut it down,” I protested and retrieved duct tape from the garage. “I’ll fix it,” I said, taping the trunk back together. “It won’t work,” Carl said. “It’s broken!”
I refused to give up.