On a recent evening walk with my dog, I turned onto a street I had never been down before, and was struck by the sensation of being in a tunnel of trees. A warm breeze blew branches and leaves in a gentle whisper, revealing stars and a moonlight sky.
I quickly noticed that the trees were all the same type and size. Most likely they had been planted about 60 years ago when mid-town Palo Alto was developed from orchards to middle-class housing. Many of the original houses still stand, although some have had major remodels or additions.
As I stood watching this scene, I thought of all the lives that had been lived on that little street - children learning to ride their bikes, teenagers going out for reckless nights, adults growing old and dying, marriages beginning, marriages crumbling. The trees were silent witnesses to this flow of life, growing imperceptibly from young saplings to the sentinels of today. Here nature is controlled, safe, and even in wild winter storms and oppressive summer heat, the trees impart a sense of solidness, of stability. Could the developers have imagined such a pristine, yet perfectly uneventful scene 60 years later?
Here's the street in the daytime, via Google Maps.
This scene exists in stark contrast to my childhood. When we came back to New Hampshire to build our house in 1981, my parents cleared the land themselves. Like much of New Hampshire, the forest had once been farmland. There was a well, a crumbling stone wall, and several apple trees, but at least 50 years of unchecked growth - brush, pine trees, and blackberry bushes. While the the neighbor's house could be seen through the trees, we were far from any town center - six miles of curvy road from the post office and the town of Bath where we had lived at the Colonial Inn. The house was 10 miles from the elementary school and high school, which turned out to be 40 minute bus ride each way. There was a separation from the "town kids" and us kids in Benton, or Pike, or Warren, or any of the other towns that were too small to have their own schools. We heated with wood instead of gas, our pipes sometimes froze in the winter or our wells ran dry in the summer, and wild animals were said to be responsible for the disappearance of our pets. Trees, if they had the room to grow wide, offered little protection from the elements.
Here's an aerial view of the neighborhood:
When my family traveled, we always camped. In small towns, at the most remote site of the most remote campground we could find. "Going into town" was a weekly or bi-weekly event, no matter where we lived.
Today I live a block away from a Safeway, a Walgreens and a Starbucks. The magnolia tree drops its huge leaves onto the roof of my house, clogging the gutters. Nature makes its presence known, but I always feel safe.
