Wishtree by Katherine Applegate
for newcomers
and
for welcomers
Be Different to Trees The talking oak
To the ancients spoke.
But any tree
Will talk to me.
What truths I know
I garnered so.
But those who want to talk and tell, And those who will not listeners be, Will never hear a syllable From out the lips of any tree.
—MARY CAROLYN DAVIES (1924)
1
It’s hard to talk to trees. We’re not big on chitchat.
That’s not to say we can’t do amazing things, things you’ll probably never do.
Cradle downy owlets. Steady flimsy tree forts. Photosynthesize.
But talk to people? Not so much.
And just try to get a tree to tell a good joke.
Trees do talk to some folks, the ones we know we can trust. We talk to daredevil squirrels. We talk to hardworking worms. We talk to flashy butterflies and bashful moths.
Birds? They’re delightful. Frogs? Grumpy, but good-hearted. Snakes? Terrible gossips.
Trees? Never met a tree I didn’t like.
Well, okay. There’s that sycamore down at the corner. Yakkity-yakkity-yak, that one.
So do we ever talk to people? Actually talk, that most people-y of people skills?
Good question.
Trees have a rather complicated relationship with people, after all. One minute you’re hugging us. The next minute you’re turning us into tables and tongue depressors.
Perhaps you’re wondering why the fact that trees talk wasn’t covered in science class, during those Mother Nature Is Our Friend lessons.
Don’t blame your teachers. They probably don’t know that trees can talk. Most people don’t.
Nonetheless, if you find yourself standing near a particularly friendly-looking tree on a particularly lucky-feeling day, it can’t hurt to listen up.
Trees can’t tell jokes.
But we can certainly tell stories.
And if all you hear is the whisper of leaves, don’t worry. Most trees are introverts at heart.
2
Name’s Red, by the way.
Maybe we’ve met? Oak tree near the elementary school? Big, but not too? Sweet shade in the summer, fine color in the fall?
I am proud to say that I’m a northern red oak, also known as Quercus rubra. Red oaks are one of the most common trees in North America. In my neighborhood alone, hundreds upon hundreds of us are weaving our roots into the soil like knitters on a mission.
I have ridged, reddish-gray bark; leathery leaves with pointed lobes; stubborn, searching roots; and, if I do say so myself, the best fall color on the street. “Red” doesn’t begin to do me justice. Come October, I look like I’m ablaze. It’s a miracle the fire department doesn’t try to hose me down every autumn.
You might be surprised to learn that all red oaks are named Red.
Likewise, all sugar maples are called Sugar. All junipers are called Juniper. And all boojum trees are called Boojum.
That’s how it is in tree world. We don’t need names to tell one another apart.
Imagine a classroom where every child is named Melvin. Imagine the poor teacher trying to take attendance each morning.
It’s a good thing trees don’t go to school.
Of course, there are exceptions to the name rule. Somewhere in Los Angeles there’s a palm tree who insists on being called Karma, but you know how Californians can be.
3
My friends call me Red, and you can, too. But for a long time people in the neighborhood have called me the “wishtree.”
There’s a reason for this, and it goes way back to when I wasn’t much more than a tiny seed with higher aspirations.
Long story.
Every year on the first day of May, people come from all over town to adorn me with scraps of paper, tags, bits of fabric, snippets of yarn, and the occasional gym sock. Each offering represents a dream, a desire, a longing.
Whether draped, tossed, or tied with a bow: They’re all hopes for something better.
Wishtrees have a long and honorable history, going back centuries. There are many in Ireland, where they are usually hawthorns or the occasional ash tree. But you can find wishtrees all over the world.
For the most part, people are kind when they visit me. They seem to understand that a tight knot might keep me from growing the way I need to grow. They are gentle with my new leaves, careful with my exposed roots.
After people write their hope on a rag or piece of paper, they tie it onto one of my branches. Usually they whisper the wish aloud.
It’s traditional to wish on the first of May, but people stop by throughout the year.
My, oh my, the things I have heard:
I wish for a flying skateboard.
I wish for a world without war.
I wish for a week without clouds.
I wish for the world’s biggest candy bar.
I wish for an A on my geography test.
I wish Ms. Gentorini weren’t so grumpy in the morning.
I wish my gerbil could talk.
I wish my dad could get better.
I wish I weren’t hungry sometimes.
I wish I weren’t so lonely.
I wish I knew what to wish for.
So many wishes. Grand and goofy, selfish and sweet.
It’s an honor, all the hopes bestowed upon my tired old limbs.
Although by the end of May Day, I look like someone dumped a huge basket of trash on top of me.
4
As you’ve probably noticed, I’m more talkative than most trees. This is new for me. I’m still getting the hang of it.
Nonetheless, I’ve always known how to keep a secret. You have to be discreet when you’re a wishtree.
People tell trees all kinds of things. They know we’ll listen.
It’s not like we have a choice.
Besides, the more you listen, the more you learn.
Bongo says I’m a busybody, and I suppose she has a point. She’s my best pal, a crow I’ve known since she was nothing but a pecking beak in a speckled egg.
We disagree sometimes, but that is the way of all friends, no matter their species. I’ve seen many surprising friendships during my life: a pony and a toad, a red-tailed hawk and a white-footed mouse, a lilac bush and a monarch butterfly. All of them had disagreements from time to time.
I think Bongo is too pessimistic for such a young bird.
Bongo thinks I’m too optimistic for such an old tree.
It’s true. I am an optimist. I prefer to take the long view on life. Old as I am, I’ve seen both good and bad. But I’ve seen far more good than bad.
So Bongo and I agree to disagree. And that’s fine. We’re very different, after all.
Bongo, for example, thinks the way we trees name ourselves is ridiculous. As is the custom with crows, Bongo chose her name after her first flight. It may not be her only name, however. Crows change names on a whim. Bongo’s cousin, Gizmo, has had seventeen names.