Karen Ott's weekly message paid tribute to Cottonwood trees today. It took me back to my youth where we had this large tree in our front yard. Sister Vivian is standing on a big rock that Dad dug out of the north field and drug it down to the yard. Here are Karen's descriptive words:
"The best thing about the cottonwood, in my estimation, is its remarkable foliage; the air is never so still that there’s not motion somewhere in the tree’s canopy; Native Americans believed the winds themselves were the bearers of messages and commands from the higher powers, with the talkative trees acting as a sort of spiritual postal service. I understand why. The slightest breeze sets the leaves to quivering, and even in the dead calm of a sultry summer afternoon, or the near stillness of a peaceful night, one can hear the trees deliver a whispered prayer. As the calendar nears the New Year the very last of the tree’s leaves, frosted and curled by freezing temperatures, still manage a final raspy goodbye before gently falling to their earthly home below."
We had another big cottonwood on the north side of the garage, a big one across the creek west of the cow barn, one along the creek near the Wagenknecht line fence and two of them across the creek, just south of the horse barn. Dad pointed out to me that one was a male and the other a female. They are distinguished by their bark to us novices. I have always admired the cottonwoods stately nature and rustling leaves.