Sprucing Up (and Down)

During these perfect summer days, I love the shade and privacy the trees around our 50 year old house provide. 

So, it makes me wince to say that five aligned spruce trees in our backyard, each averaging 60-65 feet tall, were literally lifted up and chipped into smithereens today.

New homes = money spent on new plantings.
Older homes = money spent to manage and sometimes remove older plantings.
New or old, there's no deal to be had.


The former row of spruces in our backyard.

These trees were beautifully clustered forming a gorgeous evergreen wall - they gave me a sense of security. They made the yard feel cozy.  One year, we laced them with white Christmas lights for a June party.  Wind and rainstorms shifted the lights into a droopy, tangled confusion by August, so I started pulling them down until I hit an unseen snag. Rather than investigate the problem,  I foolishly tugged harder and harder, finally giving a mighty yank only to hear the buzz of angry wasps around me. 

No more trees.

Screaming like a maniac, I ran into the house with some stings on my back.  There sat my young daughters peacefully coloring at the kitchen table.  My entrance shredded that tranquil scene.  Crying children, a crying parent, a crying shame.

Later, an evening visit under the trees 
 disclosed a sizable wasps' nest.  As months passed into the freezing winter, my husband took down the then empty nest for inspection. Its bulbous gray, paper thin beauty  mesmerized.  It eventually made it to the science table in my daughter's first grade classroom and enjoyed a spot of honor.

The spruce trees have been the backdrop to many parties since both of my daughters and my husband have early June birthdays. Countless balloons were tied to the ends of the broad branches.  And at Christmas, I would clip some boughs to drape over the mailbox, make door wreaths, and use others for indoor decorating.  A few sprigs would give a soft green carpet to the manger even though the Christ child was born in a desert climate. While sand would have been authentic, I went with the evergreen ambiance.

 I remember taking my oldest daughter out for a picnic at the foot of the evergreens when she was 9 months old.  I sat her on the grass and opened the blanket only to hear her screech and cry big tears.  Apparently, the feel of grass and the scrape of arching lower branches was all too much.

Last year, I began to feel the trees were too much myself.  A quick, fierce rainstorm caused the top half of the fifth tree from the house to break off and slam into spruce #4. It looked as though some giant hand snapped off the 35 foot topper and shoved it into the closest branches for safekeeping.

This was Mother Nature's warning shot over the bow. Trees break and the one closest to the house (with some branches draped on the roof) was lying in wait.

An interior view.

Four arborists all recently gave their opinions (and their eye-popping estimates) and the decision was made.  Those green giants had to go. 

I spent time this week photographing the trees and  enjoying the memories that bubbled up.  Then I walked in between the powerful trunks, looking up in wonder.  While the spruces gave a joined wall of green from the front, they told a very different story within.  Planted too close to each other five decades ago, they eventually blocked out any chance for lower branches to keep their inside needles.  The interior was a frayed, sparse collection of branches - brown and bare.

All this time these grand trees fronted a unified green canvas while hiding their threadbare bones. What a metaphor!  On the exterior they looked true to themselves, but a peek underneath proved otherwise.  These trees were teaching me a few things about truth and beauty - inside and out!  

Art depicting life.

Fourteen years ago, a tree service was in the neighborhood giving estimates on small jobs.  A tree next to the old deck was a mess.  We talked about having it cut but did nothing - until that summer day.  In 15 minutes, it was gone! As I patted myself on the back for making a decisive move, I was met by my then 7 year old girl sobbing in disbelief.  The tree was gone. She had no warning!

Inconsolable, she ran to her room, grabbed a pencil and quickly drew a picture of a man (with jagged teeth) holding a chainsaw (with jagged teeth) glaring at the stump of a freshly cut tree.  She titled it "My Tree."  Who knew it was hers?  The sudden change was all too much for this tender child. What I didn't know is that sometime later, she erased the gnarly, evil sneer from her tree demon and replaced it with a happy smile.  The picture makes me smile (without jagged teeth) every time.

In a proper twist, I shot lots of video of the daylong tree extravaganza to share with my daughters, who are both away for the summer. Lesson learned: I wanted today's sprucing up to bring down just the trees.

Beautiful Boy

Connor's exasperated dad desperately wants his autistic son to try riding a bike and get some exercise.  He is yelling like a banshee.

Connor, is equally exasperated and overstimulated from his dad's pushy tirade. He is also yelling as he wildly flaps his arms. The moment is charged.  I fully expect someone in the audience to stand up and yell, "Stop!!"  It is almost me.

This is theater that goes for the gut.

This is "Beautiful Boy," People's Light and Theatre Company's current work-in-progress and it is anchored in the messy world of self-discovery as a father learns, rejects, fumbles, avoids, and accepts the unexpected life that his son introduces as a child diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder.

"Beautiful Boy" is a hero-less wonder.  It is an autobiographical look into the world of playwright and PLTC Associate Artistic Director Pete Pryor, and his wife Jody and his son Colin (called Connor Repetta in the play) along with the collection of social workers, therapists, doctors, and other health care providers who infiltrate the family's world.

The work offers a perspective bonanza because the point-of-view is always in motion.  The father, Richard Repetta, played by Lindsay Smiling, simultaneously wrestles with and avoids dealing with the daily realities of autism as he navigates his spectrum of love. Aubie Merrylees, as Connor, seamlessly straps on multiple characters at sometimes breakneck speed and, in one exchange, deftly delivers one  therapist's admonishment, stating,  "You need to sober up and see this is going to be a long journey for you and your wife." (Merrylees' ability to cleanly don so many personas in split second changeovers left me breathless.)  

Pryor manages to communicate being overwhelmed while decisively sharing the prickly details of Connor's dimension-filled life.  The ground beneath them is always changing while their humanity is spilling over.  The parents slog through the excruciating delays to diagnosis, the poundage of paperwork, and the unending parade of diagnostic acronyms attached to autism as they struggle to be Connor's advocates.  It sometimes feels they are clinging to a fistful of sand.

One scene involves Richard firing a beloved therapist who has been working with Connor for a long while after the therapist takes exception to a fierce familial argument.  It is startling, perhaps because we don't want to challenge those on 'Team Connor.'  Just as this show is in-process, so, too, is Connor's family and the collection of people who affect his life.

In a post-production discussion with actors Smiling, Merrylees and Tom Bryn, who gives stage directions, it was revealed that when Merrylees (noted in the program as playing Connor and Everyone Else) changes characters, the script notes the roles are "Connor AS that character."  Each person is written as Connor sees them.  Here lies the gift in this moving production - Connor's viewpoint holds equal value with everyone else's.  He matters.

Also telling were the consistent audience comments about the show's impact.  One gentleman recalled life with his special needs sibling and how the show brought his deep emotions to light.  Another father noted how the show made him relive some of his frustration and focus in devoting his life to a child with needs.  All were moved by the honesty of the production.

Interspersed throughout the sparse piece is humor.  Humor allows the more somber notes to flow so we can safely enter this family's life and witness their fecund experience.  

The PLTC work opens with Richard recounting a sledding adventure alongside young Connor as a sort of hint to the theatrical ride that is about to unfold. In full circle mode, it closes with a video of the pair swishing down a snowy hill together with a piano rendition of John Lennon's song, "Beautiful Boy," in the background. 

Lennon's sweet ode to his son Sean, touchingly states the reality we all know but often want to ignore:

Life is what happens to you, while you're busy making other plans.

Pryor's piece keeps this evolving truth in motion.