Cottonwoods in May

“What do you think pioneers thought about the cotton that Cottonwood trees release every year?” he asked.

“I think they worried about cholera and malaria so they did not think about it one way or the other,” I said. “If they had an allergy like I do, they probably weren’t as concerned about it because survival was so important. Something like an allergy was probably easy for them considering all they went through.

“After trees started being planted in the 1850s to replace all that had been cut down, we were leaving the pioneer stage. Then levees were built, the city raised and marshes drained. By 1857 we had grown astronomically. We were a real city.

“As we grew and we had more comforts, people began to complain about dripping sap and cotton puffs from Cottonwoods. The main reason they could complain was that trees they had planted to provide shade had grown quickly. The old part of town is on the flood plain. Soil then was fertile because of silt.

“I guess they didn’t want sap dripping on their buggies or cotton puffs blowing onto their porches and around their house. Now that survival was not as important, they could be picky. I guess the terms they would have used if they were alive today is that the dripping sap would cause their buggies to depreciate faster and cotton puffs blowing all over their porperty would bring its value down.

“But something I thought of now – their kids. The kids became adults in the seventies and eighties. Everyone knows the Pilgrims’ kids weren’t as tough as the Pilgrims. The same was true for the pioneers’ kids. They probably complained all the time of their allergy.

“A couple anti-cottonwood ordinances were passed: one in 1874, then one in 1896 as the city expanded.

“But you can bet there were people who didn’t care about sap on their buggy or cotton all over the place. They probably sat on the porch during May, whenever they had time, to watch the cotton puffs blow.

“They were grateful for having survived. They’d watch the puffs drift thinking of the floods, fires, malaria, cholera, violence and corruption they saw. Then they would dream about their kids, hoping the kids would do well and stay alive.

“There were probably days when a clump of tufts drifted all over them. They’d wait till it blew away from their eyes so they could watch more. They loved having it in their hair and all over their clothes. If the kids were still small or they had grandchildren, they’d invite the little ones over to play with the cotton and each other’s hair.

“Sometimes they’d get antsy and walk to the fence to lean on it, to watch all that white sailing into the blue. They’d gather up whoever was around to drive a little ways to lighten up and get giddy as they laid in the grass in its last little bit of green.”

“What about their allergies?” he asked.

“It’s a question of imagination,” I said. “I can accept the argument that there were so many Cottonwoods that new plantings were made illegal. In those days you could just walk a short way to the country or the river, depending on whether you lived on 12th or 4th Street. You could see Cottonwoods there.

“Sutter’s Fort had a lot of Cottonwoods. Imagine watching cotton puffs blow up against the walls and thinking just thirty years ago the fort was the center of activity in the wilderness. Imagine Sutter up at the Feather River in the Spring of 1850 watching cotton puffs drift, feeling an emptiness in his stomach that the charmed land he owned had blown away like a dream on a March cloud.

“What bothers me about people who say Cottonwoods bother their allergy is that they don’t look for the one or two days when the puffs don’t bother their nose, or at least not as much. On those days I wish they would shout for joy and say we are blessed to have these beautiful graceful things.

“You hear a lot about letting go. We’ve got to slow down when we have our allergies. We’ve got to let go for that month and deal with it, look to the sky and puffs and say it is worth it.

“The same with the dripping sap and eucalyptus bark and slippery pine needles and messy Autumn leaves.

“Every tree has its beauty and a lot of trees have their inconveniences.”

“What did the Indians do?” he asked.

“What did the Indians do?”

“Yes.”

“They danced a lot,” I said. “In February they had a dance for spring clover. In April they had a dance for spring flowers. In early Summer they danced for the first harvest. But as far as I know, they didn’t have a dance for Cottonwood puffs.

“A lot of people who like the cotton puffs think of the puffs as freee and symbols of freedom. So you could ask why people like the Indians who were so free didn’t celebrate their freedom with a religious dance to the cotton puffs.

“Indians took their freedom for granted. They probably didn’t know they had it till the pioneers took it away. It’s like us not appreciating our consumer stuff until we are broke or there is a power failure. You could ask why we don’t pray to blinking lights on radio or TV towers to thank them for the passion, inspiration, realization, love and resolve the great music of the world brings us.

“What was great about the Indians is they had a civilized life. They sat around a lot. They laughed. They talked. You can bet they spent a lot of time watching cotton puffs blow and loving every minute of it.

“When I watch cotton puffs I think of all the things I have never done, all the things I want to do, all my constructive passion I’m not releasing. I don’t think Indians had that problem.

“When I saw the film at the State Indian Museum, I loved listening to the women chant and seeing the panoramic views of our beautiful state. One of the things the narrator said was that the women sang these lovely songs while they were making baskets, that making baskets was a joy, not drudgery like factory work done by white people. Well, it would have been great to see cotton puffs drift along on the screen while the women sang and the Sierras were shot exquisitely.”

I stopped.

“You know the U.S. Bank building dowtown? The one next to the library?”

“Yes,” he said.

“There’s a set of murals in the lobby. They pay tribute to Sacramento based on the themes air, earth, fire and water. The one I love is air. It shows the confluence of the rivers with our skyline in the background. On the left are little boys blowing bubbles on a windy day. The trees are windswept. In the middle of the painting is a teenage girl leaning sensually with her back against a tree and her head and long hair thrown back where the trunk bends. She has her eyes closed dreaming while one of the boys is gawking at the big bubbles floating away.

“It’s a magical day, like the way I feel in May when wind blows cotton puffs.”

“There’s no cotton puffs in the painting,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The painter understands Sacramento – the dreaminess and wind in April and May. Bubbles are more effective than if he used cotton puffs.

“Why did you ask me about them?”

“Because an old girl friend told me that when she was a few months pregnant she always went to the river to watch the cotton puffs.

I was afraid, she said. I’d sit with my feet in the water crying as I watched the cottony stuff drift. They scared me. They were free. I wasn’t. But they gave me hope because they were magical and beautiful.

“I didn’t know how to tell you so I mentioned the pioneers. I know you love the old days.”

“Did she love Sacramento?” I asked.

“No. She didn’t know the names of any of the trees either.”

Cottonwoods

“You don’t talk much about cottonwoods,” he said.

“I know,” I replied.

“Don’t you like them?”

“I love them,” I said.

“Well talk about them.”

“Even though they are big and beautiful,” I said. “They aren’t the trees people mean when they say the City of Trees. People think of elms and sycamores in neighborhoods.

“Cottonwoods pretty much grow along our rivers. My favorites are along the Sacramento off of 35th Avenue. So many of them growing tall with all that space for light play fit the wide expanse of river there. Everything is majestic.

“I feel I am in a different world. It’s quiet, especially when leaves flutter in the wind.

“I like to sit looking at the reflections of the trees in the shady water, then to the sky beyond the levee.

“It’s a place to live the moment, sitting with your feet in the water watching the river flow, thinking of your failures as you feel lucky to be surrounded by what is most important. You imagine you see your kids on the other side of the river standing on the levee going off to pursue their dreams, or returning from the big sky on the other side to tell you how their dreams turned out.

“You think of people who came here who couldn’t wait to see the confluence of our rivers. They’d make their way through the cottonwoods, seeing a big bend in the river in the distance, the sleepy trees and brush leaning over the water.

“They’d wonder what was ahead for them, around the next turn, why life is usually lived going upstream, if they would ever learn to flow and go where their power and beauty takes them.

“At the confluence they’d sit together. They’d see water sparkle and light play on leaves and trunks. They would wonder if people could merge like this.

“At night in summer they’d walk through the trees to where the rivers meet, turned on by the shape of the cottonwoods’ trunks. They’d smell damp earth and dry grass. ‘The kids will love it here,’ they’d whisper.

“They’d walk faster, horny from heat and hanging vines, loving crickets and the stars between trees.

“You think of what it must have been like when they saw the water through the trees, how badly they wanted to come together.

“From the edge of the trees they’d sit and talk things over, about what it means to merge, to create something basically like you but greater and more beautiful. All night they’d linger, their future twinkling in the sky. They’d watch water from the mountains ease toward them. They’d let their past flow away in the dark.

“They’d dream of giving everything they have, of being there forever for each other.

“It must have been scary, trusting on something as fickle as nature, knowing that things could not always be contained, that they would surge over the boundaries, that some years one flow would trickle and only one of you would sustain everything.

“There must have been times when they’d wander alone along one of the rivers wondering what happened, grateful for their children, walking until the stars came out, until dawn, when they were as far from the confluence as they’d ever been.

“The strong one left behind would look to the mountains for strength, asking why they all weren’t there with the mountains and rivers and trees – everything you could ask for.

“I ask myself all the time why a freeway is over the confluence, why we call the merging Discovery Park when it’s too noisy to discover love and permanence, things that are most important and we desperately need.

“I think of the weak one wandering back to the confluence, the passion they both felt as they watched the mountains, vowing to be true to themselves.

“They’d think and dream about the kids, knowing time was moving on like the rivers, hoping everybody would age like cottonwoods.

“It’s difficult,” I said, “to feel graceful like cottonwoods when I watch the river flow and see the mountains. My dreams were huge.”

Turn of the century

They grew up on horses
Retired in cars.
Leaving bars
They glimpsed stars,
Remembering prairies after a game.
Their glove a pillow.
Boys dreaming of fame.

Waging peace

Another year of heart break
I lust over winter oranges
Peaceful and promising in the fog.