Be a Tree (Part 1)

When you decide to be a tree for a day, you’re going to hear a comment or two. But not the obvious questions: “Why not be a log?” Or, “What do you have against shrubs?”

No, I received less likely questions, such as, “You’re not going to be weird, are you?” Or “Why are you doing this?”

You just gotta be free to be a tree and remember it’s important in life to branch out. (Editor’s note: We’re against that pun, and, well, all of the ones headed your way. You’re “saps” for continuing on.) (Writer’s note: Really???)

I drove off in search of places to be a tree. First stop: The walking path along Lake Pontchartrain, among the majestic Southern Oaks dripping with Spanish Moss. I found a perfect trio of tree partners: an ancient oak and a pair of newish palm trees, with a lake view and the New Orleans skyline in the distance.

Good neighbors matter, at least that’s what mine say before they move away.

To blend in, I gathered some of the grey-beard-looking moss from the ground and draped it over my shoulders. I grabbed a few branches from the ground, too, and I challenge anyone to tell which one of us wasn’t a tree.

The only difference was the oak tree kept dropping acorns. (The palm trees were kinda antisocial and didn’t bring much to the party.) So to fit in, I dropped my keys. The oak dropped a few more acorns.

The game of chicken was on and the oak wasn’t giving in. He kept throwing acorns, so after the keys, I reached for my credit cards to make it rain and prove I was all-in.

A minivan pulled up nearby before it got ugly. More than 30 cars had gone by while I was a tree, but I was facing the lake so, while I couldn’t tell, I’m sure they couldn’t distinguish one tree from another.

A mother of two and her mom exited the minivan and started walking our way. Now, of course, the oak was on its best behavior and holding its acorns. Oaks are such phonies.

Anyway, the four were headed to the play area nearby and approached us trees cautiously. Who wouldn’t? A few minutes ago, the oak was firing projectiles like a Wild West gunslinger.

I put them at ease by saying, “Hi,” just so they knew I wasn’t a grasping “Wizard of Oz” tree. I asked the mom if she’d take a picture, and as I handed her my phone, she said, “Do you want to be near the other trees?”

“Other.” She knew I was a tree! She understood me. Though she did pull her daughters closer to her as she walked away.

That was enough, so it was time to “leaf” for a new spot. (Editor’s note: We warned you.)