My grandson, Shawn, as a lad of three who lived in Texas, loved big trucks and was fascinated by dinosaurs of every size and shape. He was a curious young lad, eager to learn almost everything. One day he found a seed in his food and wondered if it would be resurrected into a plant. He buried the embryonic mass in a grave prepared for it in a Dixie cup. With the help of his mom, he tended his garden, keeping it moist without drowning it. In a few days the husk of the seed appeared above the grave, as a flag on its staff. Soon the husk dropped off, revealing a pair of pale green lobes spread apart to gather life-sustaining light. It had become a plant. Its resurrection was complete.

The little plant put forth leaves and gained stature as days passed. As the visible part of the plant grew, so did its roots, and like a crawfish outgrowing his shell, soon needed more room to grow. The Dixie cup was discarded in favor of a bigger pot plus new soil. The plant was, by this time, obviously a tree. Shawn named it Toy-Toy. It is unclear how many new homes Toy-Toy had over the next two or three years, but it was enough to sustain life.

Toy-Toy’s family brought her along on their move from Texas to Louisiana. There, Toy-Toy continued to live in her private garden until her family moved into its own house. The fenced-in back yard, with trees and shrubs around the perimeter, made good cover for small wildlife, such as birds and squirrels. A pecan tree, much favored by the squirrels, who claimed it as their own, gripped tightly its feeding place in the yard. There was an area between the pecan tree and the fence big enough for another tree. It was much more space than needed for such a small fry as Toy-Toy, but she would need room to stretch her arms if she were to become a real tree. She was given that place in the sun to rule over, a place much more life-friendly than her portable garden.

She was on her own, and thrived in her realm. Now she is a genuine tree. She stands straight and tall, perhaps too tall. She is a lady adorned in her most splendid gown, verdant always and glistening in the sun. Her sweet perfume sometimes fills the air, but is never overwhelming. Her silence is sometimes broken with a murmur in a breeze. She is a highway for the squirrels, an aboveground shortcut to their cafeteria. She is a wildcat if molested, her ever sharpened claws ready to dig deep into an intruder.

Toy-Toy is not just a tree that produces seeds. She bears fruit, which she will reluctantly give up to one who is patient enough to gather it amongst her thorns. 

Sometimes a squirrel strays from the highway and cuts fruit from a branch and lets it drop to the ground. We call him a vandal. All is not lost, however; one can pick up the squirrel’s debris and with a little elbow grease enjoy a delicious drink of orange juice.