Hi everyone,
I know that hackberry is not a pleasant sounding name for a tree, not at sonorous as maple, elm, walnut, cherry, ash. Hackberry sounds like a junk tree, an overgrown weed, a hairball on the landscape.

Our two hackberries, the survivors of three, were young and strappy in 1989 when we bought this lot for our new home. The builder brought in his crew with machinery and prepared to knock the young trees down to clear the way for construction. SANDY saw what they were about to do and demanded that they stop immediately. The builder was not a good sport about it. They were hackberry trees for Pete’s sake. Sandy remained resolute. I could have told him she would. The trees were spared.
How many hours have we spent now, loving these two trees, their shade, the privacy they provide, their beauty? How many generations of creatures have sought refuge among their branches, called victoriously from their highest limbs? How many young birds have viewed life for the first time, looking down through its leafy boughs?

We have watched the sisters, as these two sturdy plants surely must be, grow and mature. I remember the summer when tips of their adjoining limbs nearly touched. I, and I’m sure they, waited with anticipation for the next growing season when they would touch each other at last. Now look at them. They hold hands and sway together in perfect harmony on every fresh breeze and fight off stormy weather, twice as strong for their union.

Sandy, I should thank you more often for what you did nearly thirty-four years ago, back when you and I were younger, back when the hackberry trees were hardly more than saplings, back when you saved our trees.