Pondering our legacy, my husband and I decide to plant more trees

My husband, Todd, and I sat on the patio on a perfect summer day in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It was in the 70s and sunny, with a brisk wind that kept the mosquitoes and biting flies away. We looked out beyond our backyard to a field that had been a farmer’s strawberry field years ago, long before my parents purchased the property.

When Todd was diagnosed with ALS 16 years ago, one of the first things he said was, “We need to sell the house. We need to move and build a house next to your parents so you’ll have their support and help with the kids.” Our home in Wisconsin was right across from a cemetery, and he joked that he didn’t want that view while he was dying.

We sold our home and built an accessible house next to my parents on a corner of their land where I had played as a child. Much of the land on Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula was cleared long ago, so there aren’t as many old hardwood trees as one might expect to find on acres of undeveloped land. On our corner, there was only one old oak tree in our woods. The trunk’s width suggests it is probably over 200 years old. When I walk by it, I marvel at its size amid the alder brush and poplar that surround it.

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The grassy field before us was dotted with specks of white and yellow flowers. The wind rippled the grass, reminiscent of waves. “This is almost like sitting by a lake,” I told Todd. He agreed. I rubbed his shoulder as I thought about how some of his dreams had been cut short. He grew up on a lake and would have liked to one day own a cabin by a lake or a boat. Our field wasn’t a lake, but it was still beautiful.

I studied the play structure we had put together when we built the house. Our daughter, who was 6 when we moved near my parents, was sad to leave behind our city park. We told her we would have our own park in our yard.

Now, 14 years later, the play structure is weathered and our kids have long outgrown it. It gets infrequent use, but I imagine that someday I may have grandchildren who play on it. I glanced at Todd. It is unlikely that he will be here to meet them.

Next to the play structure is a small maple tree. My mom had given it to Todd for Father’s Day four years ago. When planting it, I imagined it someday providing shade in the yard. It has nearly doubled in size, but it’s still a small tree, so it’s a long way from serving that purpose.

I mused that it would be a good place to hang a swing someday. But that day will be years from now. Maybe our grandchildren could swing from the tree. “How long do you think it will be before your maple tree can support a swing?” I asked Todd.

“Probably 50 years,” he said.

That would put me at almost age 99 if I’m still around, so it’s unlikely I’ll see it. And our potential future grandchildren would be adults before the tree is mature. Perhaps someday, my great-grandchildren or great-great-grandchildren will swing from it — or, if our home is no longer in the family, perhaps some other children.

It made me happy to think about Todd’s Father’s Day maple outliving both of us and being a source of joy for someone who didn’t even know us. “Maybe we should plant more trees,” I said, and Todd agreed.

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