trees

I heard tell of a little boy (the son of a friend) named Redwood the other day. I'm sorry, but that's adorable. And inspirational! I mean, we're all intent — as kids then as parents — upon the ideal of growing up big & strong. Having the name "Redwood" certainly would inspire one to eat one's all-powerful veggies, wouldn't it?

Related to that (sort of), Mr. Betty used to tell our kids, when they were small, on all those occasions when they faced without enthusiasm the spectre of broccoli on their plates, "Eat your trees."

Mr. B's mom said the same thing to him when he was a kid, apparently; he was just passing it along. No doubt about it: Broccoli looks like trees ... although I guess it's spinach that carries with it the greatest power-producing qualities, according to the Popeye principle. But spinach is more akin to seaweed; I can't imagine telling a kid to eat his or her seaweed. Not with any expectation of success, anyway.

Back to Redwood: In these parts, of course, it's more about history. Family history, local history. Hearing the name applied to a real-live, present-tense (little) person made me wonder, and I hate to admit that I hadn't thought about it with any specificity before: Who was that other Redwood? The original (not that everyone isn't an original)? The Redwood behind the impressive-in-every-way institution that is the Redwood Library and Athenaeum? Whatever happened to him? Or her?

Or to any number of other pillars/posts of the community for that matter?

Then there's what happens to trees ....

Those roots (^^) look like fingers, don't they? Clawing their way into the soil? Old and knuckly? They belong to the big (old) beech that stands before the Redwood ...


And that (^^), to me, is a sheep's face, not that there's much point in pointing it out ...