ee I elt

he old lady didn’t

call it an aspen

tree; she referred

to it simply as a

poplar. Said it was as old as

she was and that it grew
_ right outside her window.

Her window at home, that is,
not the window beside her
hospital bed. From that win-
dow all she saw was the back
_of the old town hall, and a su-
® permarket parking lot.

She liked to talk about her
tree, speaking about it as she
would a friend.

After she became unable to
get out much on her own, she
4 took to sitting by the window,
the old tree serving as com-
pany. She rejoiced in the first
green buds that marked the
end of winter’s hold on the
land. In summer, its foliage
~@ provided welcome shade. In

autumn its leaves reflected
| the brightness of the crisp,
| cool days and even in the

winter she liked the starkness
of its branches etching pat-
| terns against the lowering
| sky:
_® But Mrs. Logan had been
with us for many months, all

through the long, hot summer.
Now it was October, and she
was homesick, missing the
land and the changing
seasons.

Possibly because I lived fur-
thest from work, she had
chosen me as her informant.
Knowing I had 15 miles of
country roads over which to
drive every day, she was al-
ways full of questions.

=Goldenrod=

By IVY KENT

Had I seen any geese flying
south yet? Had there been any
morning frost? Had I got my
garden all in and the produce

safely stored for winter use? -

But most of all, she missed the
colors of autumn. Were the

. Greetings, from your
old friend, the aspen

berry bushes as red as usual?
Was there a lot of hips on the
rose bushes? This was sup-
posed to be a sure sign of a
hard winter. And she would
think about her tree and how
it would stand bright in the
October sun.

Sometimes I would catch her
just staring out of the window
and I knew she wasn’t seeing
the cars and old buildings; she
was Seeing instead her old tree
and the vista from her com-
fortable armchair on the farm.

Then, one afternoon I found
her more chipper than usual.
Had a letter from her great
granddaughter, she said. The
child was barely seven, and
lived with her parents in Mrs.
Logan’s old home.

Sitting in bed, all propped up
with pillows, she reached over
and took the bulky envelope
out of the drawer in her bed-
side table. She pointed with
pride to the laboriously
printed address. Smoothing
out the bedspread, she opened
the envelope and emptied out
the contents.

LEAVES FALL during autumn outside the Metchosin Church.

Hundreds of small golden
discs cascaded down, covering
the bed, making an old
fashioned autumn “coverlid”
out of the sterile hospital
spread. Without being told, I

Photo by IRENE FLOEGE-BOEHM

knew their source.

Through the medium of a
child, her old friend had sent
regards. For Mrs. Logan, it
was just the right kind of “let-
ter.”

\
a?
“a

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