HANNAH WHITALL SMITH

For the mother is and must be, whether she knows it or not, the greatest, strongest, and most lasting teacher her children have.

My mother loved all growing things. We had apple trees, pear trees, a grape arbor, a rose arbor, tulips, lilacs, irises, and an annual garden. The Murdocks, who lived directly west of us, had a large cherry orchard. Although they gave us all the cherries we wanted, my mother was determined to have her own cherry tree. Accordingly, one fall we planted (I say we, because I dug the hole) a three-foot sapling. Mother fertilized, watered, watched over, pampered, and stroked that tree until it was a wonder it didn’t die from too much attention. It was amazing how it grew, and in its second spring, it actually blossomed and bore cherries—not enough to make a pie, but my mother was so proud of the accomplishment that she nearly burst. She even carried some of those cherries in her purse to show her friends.

We always shopped at the A&P grocery store in Royal Oak. Fortunately for me, just down the street was Frantz & Sons Hardware. While my mother shopped, I wandered up and down the aisles of Frantz & Sons. It was a fascinating place. Great bins of nails, rows of hinges, racks of shovels, balls of twine—smells of feed, seed, leather goods—and a hundred other items all combined to make it a whole world in itself.

Inevitably, I was led to the fishing equipment, then the gun rack, and finally to the knife display case—which was a wooden cabinet with a glass door. I stood for long minutes gazing in wonder that there were so many fine things to be had. At the bottom of the knife case, there was one item in particular that attracted me. It was a belt hatchet—just the right size for me.

It had a leather case that could be strapped right onto your belt for carrying purposes. I began to pester my mother about it. One day she actually went in to look at it, and I knew that my pleading was getting somewhere. It was a long process, but eventually she bought it for me.

I remember going around the yard whacking on things. It was exceedingly sharp. I whacked on old two-by-fours; I whacked apart an old crate that had been sitting behind the chicken coop—but it was all very dissatisfying. I wanted something more substantial to cut. All of the trees on our place were far too large for me to tackle with my hatchet—all except one: the cherry tree. As preposterous as this seems, the idea was probably enhanced by my schoolteacher telling us about George Washington cutting down the cherry tree. Since George was quite a hero, the idea of cutting down our cherry tree was an easy step.

I guess that just walking up and cutting it down all at once was a little too much for me, so I decided to trim it a little first. The result was that I left not a single limb intact. Our cherry tree was reduced to a forlorn-looking, tapering rod protruding from the ground. Around its base lay a pile of limbs with the leaves looking limp and sickly.

GEORGE ELIOT

Blessed is the influence of one true loving human soul on another.

When I stepped back to survey my work, my conscience began. You know, consciences are often the most useless things. When I needed it was before I started, but it was completely silent then—didn’t help me a lick. It never said, John, you’d best think about this or, Are you sure this is what you want to do? Now, when it was to late to be of any use whatsoever, here it came—full blast. Now look what you’ve done, it cried. Pictures of my mother fertilizing and watering, her proud tones as she displayed those first cherries to all of her friends—all flooded my memory and made me feel terrible.

But what good did it do to feel terrible after the fact?

It also occurred to me that this might not be easy to explain. I put my hatchet in its case and wandered slowly into the kitchen. I had studied some on how best to approach this situation and had decided that it would be to my best advantage to open the subject before it was discovered.

I know a little boy who cut down a cheery tree, I piped in my most cheerful, winning voice.

My mother, busily occupied, laughed and replied, Oh, I bet I know who it was. It was George Washington. She said it so nice and sweet that I was reassured and plunged ahead.

No, it wasn’t. It was John Smith.

Right off there was a noticeable change in both the temperature and the atmospheric pressure in the kitchen. My mother turned on me quickly, and her voice didn’t have any sweetness to it.

Did you cut down my cherry tree? She grabbed me by my left ear (she was right-handed, so her grip was better), and we marched out to the scene of the crime—with her nearly lifting me off the ground, using my left ear for leverage.

I would have gone anyway.

When she saw the tree, she started to cry; and since she needed both hands to dry her eyes, she turned loose of my ear—which was a great relief. It was a sad-looking sight, standing there like a little flagpole—but I thought things might go a little easier for me since she was so sad and all. They didn’t. She whipped me with every last limb I had chopped off that tree—whipped me till the limb was just shreds of bark left in her hand. I was afraid she was going to start on pear tree limbs, but she finally gave out. It cheered me some to think that she was using the limbs on me—

instead of the hatchet.

You know, my mother went right back to work on that cherry tree. She kept right on watering and fertilizing and caring for it. Anyone else would have given up. She willed that tree to live, and it did. It grew and became a fine tree, with only a few scars on its trunk—to remind me of my folly.

1 PETER 4:7-9

Love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

MARK TWAIN

We are always too busy for our children; we never give them the time or interest they deserve. We lavish gifts upon them; but the most precious gift ~ our personal association, which means so much to them ~ we give grudgingly.

ne day I was playing in our backyard with a paint-can lid. It was before the days of Frisbee—perhaps the inventor of the Frisbee got his idea from watching the creative genius of a child who, like me, had discovered the amazing flying propensities of a paint-can lid. I was sailing it into the wind, and as its momentum slowed, the wind would take it higher and higher. Then it would begin its downward and backward glide, and I would try to catch it. Eventually, it landed and lodged on the roof of the chicken coop. Since we had no ladder, I got one of our long cane poles that we used for fishing and fretted and worried most of the afternoon trying to dislodge it. I finally gave up.