There is one time of year when I wish I didn't have any trees in my backyard. No, it's not autumn when the leaves blanket the ground waiting to be raked and composted, nor is it spring when the trees drip continuously on our driveway until a thick layer of sap, impervious to windshield washer fluid, covers my car. This short-lived dislike comes in August during the Perseid meteor shower.
My family started this ritual when our daughter was discussing the solar system in grade five science class, and one opportunistic glance upward had us hooked. We have a second-floor deck from which to view the ethereal display, away from the scavenging creatures that takeover our neighbourhood woods every night, where I set up sleeping bags, pillows, and every cushion I can get my hands on because lying on deck boards can be a form of torture.
Around 1 a.m. I get the kids out of bed and we head out into the cool summer air on the night when astronomers predict the greatest number of meteors will occur. We tuck ourselves into the blankets and stare up at the starry sky wondering why we don't take in this perspective more often. And that's when I get miffed about the trees in our garden.
Our house was built many years ago with a nod to nature that I will always appreciate but it's this walnut grove around us that causes the most interference. There are a variety of mature trees surrounding our deck, some pushing 25 metres tall, and becoming noticeably bigger every year, as evidence in the once sunny spots of our garden that no longer see any light.
These beautiful trees provide hours of entertainment watching birds, animals, and insects; days of cool shade and dancing shadows; and months of a close-up appreciation for the changing seasons. They appear to cradle our house from large windows giving us a treehouse feeling from the main floor, which overlooks a ravine running through the backyard. I love these trees and I am grateful to the original owners for having such foresight fifty years ago.
We are also guilty of contributing to the overshadowing of our house by adding trees that will one day dwarf the maples and oaks: sycamore, tulip, beech, Kentucky coffee, ginkgo, and cucumber trees. I can't help it, trees give me so much pleasure that I am addicted to their charm.
It's only this time of year when I wish they would all disappear because our viewing area is diminished by fifty percent, which means we miss many of the stars streaming through parts of the sky covered in leaves. We could venture out to an open field but the logistics make it a daunting task in the wee hours of the night so we stick to our deck and marvel at every shooting star we are lucky enough to see. For the time being, we'll continue watching from our limited vantage point because it's a fun, free adventure to experience, even if we miss half the show, and, as you may know, every joke and bodily function is ten times funnier at three in the morning.
