I have a philosophy when it comes to trees and global warming. My position is that if you drive a car, you plant trees to offset your carbon miles. As a result, I proselytize; annoying a number of people but feel I have a responsibility, no matter what.
My friends will tell you I’m tangential; not able to follow a straight line or stay on point. I can be all over the place. That also comes with trawling the internet; I tend to get lost, follow links and then have no idea how I got there. Needless to say, somewhere somehow, I found a statement that said, “You need to plant 11 trees if you drive a car.” To that end, I’ve planted as many trees as I can, wherever I’m living at the time.
While in Queensland looking after my parents, I fell in love with the different varieties of frangipani I could see in people’s gardens. Triggered by memories of my mother’s huge frangipani with cream flowers that had perfumed the summer air of her kitchen garden in Rose Park, I was on a mission. In Queensland, what was on offer in terms of colour was extensive, and I was fascinated. I made a decision. While with my parents, I would plant additions to their garden.
I’m a propagator. Meaning I take cuttings and cultivate. My kids would say I nick, but I’ll always defend myself against that implication. I never take the lot; I only take pieces from the bottom of plants or branches that don’t disturb the symmetry of the plant.
While Alida, an old friend from Adelaide, and I were driving up Tamborine Mountain I spied a huge frangipani dropping apricot flowers over the verge and I was overtaken with desire. ‘Stop, stop,’ I yelled. Caught by my demand she did and to her shock, I jumped out of the car and ran back to the tree. I looked for the best branch to snap without destroying the structure, and then raced back to the car with my spoils.
Alida is my born-again friend who, at that time, was just finding her way into a different Christianity and was somewhat unprepared and horrified as I stuffed the oversized branch, leaking sap, into her car.
Getting back into the passenger seat, I yelled, ‘Go, go,’ and in shock, she planted her foot. My innocent getaway driver.
Where Alida was concerned, it was not one of my finest moments and all she kept saying was, “But I’m a Christian. I can’t believe I helped you.” Guilt was our companion that day and all she could do was ruminate over her assistance in a crime. Unable to reconcile her actions, she delivered a tri-colour frangipani to me in the hope I would stop my “propagating”. She missed the point. I was on a mission and hadn’t quite planted the 11 trees.
The last frangipani I found was one with pure white flowers. I planted it after my stepfather’s death and to record the developing dementia of my mother. In many Asian cultures, white is associated with death and, to the Vietnamese, the flowers become the ghosts of loved ones.
The tree left growing in the garden spoke of my feelings of loss.
Burnside Writers Group 