A happy weeping willow

More than any other tree a weeping willow connects me to my childhood. There was one just across the drain at the back of the section of the house where I lived until I was about seven years old.

One Guy Fawkes night I was chased around that tree by a Jumping Jack alive with a random evil intent. The branches of the willow, hindering my escape did more to frustrate me than offer any protection. A conspiracy was at hand.

The whole look of this tree, for a child, draws right out of the tales of the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen, witches, magic tinderboxes, and dogs with eyes as big as saucers. The curtains of leaves circumscribed a magical arena but it was not necessarily a good magic. Dark and strange things could happen there. If you were not on your guard, at least, just a little bit.

And for what, or for whom does the tree weep? Grown-ups had some crazy names for some things. That it was named for its shape did not really occur to me.

I walked under the boughs of this tree today beside the stream. I am happy to say I still felt the magic, and I could handle it.