Killing the Tree of Heaven

We went back to the east coast by way of Newark, and though it was spring break we made the kids wear coats, and I packed a scarf. We got a rental car and drove to my grandmother’s house in Bethlehem where my uncle Jim now lives alone, he’s getting it ready to be sold. We ate hoagies and chicken salad sandwiches and Jim taught Charlotte how to play backgammon. With no Wi-Fi or TV, no stereo, it was just the sound of the appliances and people talking in different rooms. Jim has a flip phone but he’s going off that too, about to turn 65, still has his amateur radio license (they’re good for 10 years), could use that if he really needed to reach someone. In the morning the poster board from my grandmother’s funeral still leaning in the corner where she sat, with photos of her in various stages of life — and I walked up the road toward the sun, the grass crunchy with frost, snow shovels still left out front of the homes, the roads cut up and broken from the weight of all those east coast winters, all that salt and snow.

Driving around my home town trying to reconnect places with memory from a time I didn’t drive, routes more circular than linear. And my aunt describing what it was like to go into her 92-year-old uncle’s house after he died, like a horror film how it was lit, with only a pathway from room to room, trapped by the mind with so much stuff inside, he had to just sit in the driveway in his car to get some relief. All that stimulation of memory for me driving to the old apartment on Lehigh street, walking the same alleyway I did as a kid, what the sea of memory coughs up by way of the tides. It was like the end of that book A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, when the author goes back to his childhood home but it’s anti-climatic, it’s no different than life: all those climaxes or revelations you expect come in everyday ways instead, and either you notice them or you don’t. Here, the people living in our old apartment were likely poor, but hanging on. All the apartments looked the same when I was a kid, but I imagined each one had different qualities. And after just 5 or 10 minutes walking through I’d seen all there was to see, and got the hell out.

I drove down to the next house where we lived, parked by the E-Z cash store, past the coin-operated laundry, a place advertising Guns & Ammo — down the side streets I played as a kid, it all looked the same, but not in a good way — it looked untouched since the early ’80s with all the peeling paint, the dug-up concrete footers and tarps and bags of trash, building materials…projects half-started, never going anywhere…hard to tell if some places were just abandoned, the garages didn’t even have doors, just random stuff inside not worth stealing. I hurried out, feeling a bit sick, wanting to take my kids there so they could be proud of how well we’re doing for ourselves…or maybe I just wanted that for myself, for my own pride.

Sue and John got their new house built, but out back many of the trees need to be taken out: they’re the awful Tree of Heaven species, the Ailanthus altissima (“foul-smelling tree,” in Chinese): cut them down and they’ll only sucker out, and get stronger. You have to hack them at the base with a hatchet and fill them full of Roundup so they suck it through the roots and die from the insides. And they attract a spotted lantern moth that kills all the neighboring trees. And the Tree of Heaven smells like rancid peanuts, used gym socks, or semen. (source: Wikipedia). It’s all that spit up on the beach by the tides of memory, of objects found there smoothed over, carried from another time and place, better handled with plastic gloves, garbage bags, Roundup and axes.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in Memoir, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

30 Responses to Killing the Tree of Heaven

  1. kirizar says:

    A vivid visual and olfactory memory—not necessarily a great one—but totally possible to picture it as you walked/drive your childhood memory lanes.

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Hi Kiri! Thank you…nice hearing from you again and love the Wonder Woman photo of you on your blog! That’s super. My 13-year-old Lily has gotten into some social activism things and recently did some advocacy for kids with autism, nice…thank you for reading and glad you could picture it. I was playing with very low level of detail and going for feeling over imagery, sounds like it connected with you, I’m glad. Bill

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Wow, sounds like Eastern PA, alright. Really enjoyed the Toxic Tide Ride, here! All you need is Peter Stormare and a wood-chipper for Fargo, East. Cherished recollections, folks, we’re gonna need rubber gloves, Roundup, and axes — just keep chopping at those memory banks! Seriously, this is memorable stuff, I like it, and I definitely see the scene.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I get similar feelings when I go back to St. Louis. It’s complicated, right?

    We have a tree in Northern Cal. that must be a cousin of the Tree of Heaven. We call it “the jism tree.” ‘Nuff said!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. There is a tree of heaven at one end of my garden. I frequently contemplate having it removed, but haven’t as yet. It does send up shoots and sprouts all summer long and dumps loads of seeds in the fall and winter. I haven’t noticed a smell, though. The Wikipedia article says it’s the male trees that stink, so I guess mine’s a female. The tree of heaven grew in Brooklyn, though — consider that!

    Liked by 1 person

  5. ksbeth says:

    clearly sounds as though there is no letting your childhood slip slowly away, axes and roundup to it all)

    Liked by 1 person

  6. rossmurray1 says:

    Brought to you by the Pennsylvania Tourism Board.
    That last line is packed.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. walt walker says:

    My favorite thing about this is that I’m the same way when I go back to the past. Well… that and the hoagie reference.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. So someone called it ‘Tree of Heaven’ to be ironic? Is that it. The Chinese speak clearly.

    Are you in my backyard? Ping me if you’re free. I’m in that bus depot 2x a day. It’d be funny if I passed you without knowing it.

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      I wanted to arrange to see you yesterday but we were just there for the afternoon. Ate at Rose Mexicana by Central Park West, 66th or something. Really nice…good weather yesterday. Flying home tomorrow; I thought similar about “bumping into each other.” Driving into Newark early afternoon but not really practical for a meetup, is it? Or is it?

      Like

  9. There’s a slightly queasy bad acid quality to the bleeding of memory into urban decay/death that affected me strongly. Spat up on the beach by the tides of memory; I saw an oil flecked bird carcass while the child saw the waves.

    Potent, Bill.

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Ha, the bad acid: good description Bruce. Thanks for that imagery too and for reading. Such is that slippery slope of childhood memory and the past! Bill

      Liked by 1 person

  10. The jetsam and flotsam of the past regurgitated so poetically Bill!

    Liked by 1 person

  11. Dave Ply says:

    Sounds like there’s not much danger of becoming all sad and melancholy about your childhood haunts when you get old. (Unless there’s a good story in it.)

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Funny they call them haunts and true, that! Looking forward to flying back home but had fun here on the east coast, our other home. Hi Dave!

      Liked by 1 person

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