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Hands folded. Back straight. Eyes staring forward. Suitcase tucked under a pair of neat, gloved hands.
Azalea blinks; sixteen blinks per minute.
Her heartbeat thrums in her chest; seventy-three beats a minute.
The train rolls steadily on.
The window beside her displays rolling meadows and vibrant forests far in the distance, a vivid cerulean sky boasting cotton-wisp clouds.
Azalea's violet eyes never stray from the invisible point on the train seat across from her.
The booth itself is rather spacey; there's enough space for two people to sit comfortably on either side, the seats lined with maroon velvet and pillowy cushions. There's enough space to stretch her legs; though Azalea keeps hers just in front of her, tucked under the little edge the seat makes.
Smooth oak makes the floor and walls of the booth; Azalea's boots click softly against the hard wood with every little bump the train rolls over.
The sound of chatter and laughter makes its way from neighbouring booths.
Mechanically, Azalea tips her head to look out the window in time to see a sprawling lake, the sun rippling over the iridescent, miniscule waves. Waterfowl dip and play in the shimmering water, feathered wings flapping and beaks diving.
Azalea stares, until the lake passes.
A strawberry field takes its place.
Hunched-over workers straighten to wave at the passing train, red berries sheltered in baskets set against hips. Their clothes are stained with mud and dirt; their tanned, wrinkled faces are streaked with it. They smile nonetheless, eyes squinting and mouths curling into broad grins. Soon, they return to crouching among the rows of strawberries, turning into nothing more than bobbing sunhats floating in a sea of strawberry plants.
The strawberry field passes too, and soon a farm comes into view.
Lush green pastures house cows, horses, sheep, and pigs.
"Miss?"
Azalea turns at the voice, blinking at the attendant who pokes her head in.
"Would you like a snack?"
Azalea glances at the cart.
"Jasmine tea, please."
"Of course!"
A cup of tea is poured.
Azalea takes it with a word of thanks, and the attendant bustles on.
Azalea sips the just-too-hot tea. The floral aroma fills her nose, faintly sweet and somewhat minty. She takes another sip.
Turning back to the scenery, Azalea finds that the far-reaching pastures are ending, melting into a cornfield.
The high stalks block her view, but she only looks at them, impassive.
Soon, the corn stalks disappear, revealing rows and rows of lavender, the violet petals stretching out farther than Azalea can see.
Eighteen blinks a minute. seventy-seven heartbeats a minute.
Azalea lifts her eyes to the sky, at the impossibly blue depth and blinding sun. She counts eight white clouds, like delicate brushstrokes.
"Approaching Leichen Train Station," the speakers announce.
Azalea turns her gaze back to the seat before her as the train slows.
-----
The train leaves, wind blowing at her hair and clothes.
The platform is nearly empty; the other passengers had been few, and picked up by others.
Azalea glances at the height of the sun. She walks.
----
The sun touches the horizon by the time Azalea pauses.
A grove of wisteria trees sway before her, the sweet nectar scent beckoning her closer. Azalea plants crowd the trees' roots, violet and pink and orange dancing in the wind.
Twenty blinks a minute. Seventy-eight heartbeats a minute.
"They say," Azalea whispers the words she'd memorized by heart. "They say that if you whisper your wish into the buds of a wisteria flower..."
Azalea steps forward, gently taking hold of a lock of magenta flowers.
"...your wish will be granted when it blooms."
The small buds are still green at the edges, small and tightly furled.
"I wish..."
Azalea pauses, closing her eyes shut as a torrent of sudden emotion flurries in her numb heart.
"I-I wish... to find her."
And as Azalea steps back, head tipping up to take in purples and blues and yellows and pinks, she smiles.
I'll find you.
The Little Spruce Tree Contest
?Sandra, this is really cute!? I exclaim at our December 10th Latke lunch celebration. Each year our writing group dines on Lynn?s famous Latke?s and exchange gifts during the December holiday season. Our six members are all here: Lynn hosting as always, Rose, Michele, Gail, Sandra and me.
Sandra is a new, but not unknown member of our writing group. Fifteen years ago, Lynn, Rose and I took a ?Memoir? writing course at Ryerson University and she was one of the students. Her gift for each of us is what looks to me like a miniature Spruce tree. Luckily, I have come to Toronto with my back pack so I will be able to transport the tree on the subway and GO train without worry of it being crushed.
Fast forward to January 22nd, 2020. It?s our first meeting since the December holidays and Lynn has her tree from Sandra near the window in her dining room, but not at the window. I take the liberty of picking it up and placing it on the window sill. Judging from a few of the needles that have turned brown on her tree, I decide it will fare better with more light.
Discussion follows about plants and later that day Michele sends a photo of her almost blooming Amaryllis. The following day Gail sends a photo of her tree from Sandra, and I notice that it already has an array of young, bright green needles on it.
With Gail?s photograph of Sandra?s tree gift looking perky, Michele?s showy Amaryllis, I pose the idea of a competition for who can grow ?the best tree from Sandra?s gift?
Sandra remarks that she is ?happy to see the wee trees have sparked a healthy competition?. The next day Sandra sends a photograph of her lemon tree. I email her immediately in capital letters
?Sandra, your Lemon tree simply DOES NOT QUALIFY AS A FIR TREE? to make sure she knows that the Lemon tree doesn?t fit in the competition.
Two days later I send a photo of my fir Tree. Rose notes that it ?looks like a lovely transplant,? and that I might get contest points for it. I?ve placed it in a larger clay pot and saucer to help the roots spread out.
Concerned that over time, excitement for the contest might falter, I suggest that we decide on an end date for evaluating the best tree. No response to my ?end date? idea, but Lynn writes that a friend of hers suggests that we choose categories for our prize; For example, ?Best in Show. Most likely to be thrown out first??are two of her ideas.?
Impressed with the category idea, I imagine that we can come up with even more categories for prizes. ?Largest in height or diameter, passion and commitment, best use of colour, long term vision, sustainable impact, collaboration, people?s choice, innovation, novice award, best exhibit, horticultural excellence, outstanding beauty, high standards, and a ?green thumb? award are a few possibilities.
Keen to make sure that I am using the appropriate soil for my tree, I ask Sandra if she thinks her gift is a Spruce Tree. ?Sorry, I haven?t a clue?, she says. ?I believe it belongs to the tree genus, and to the best of my knowledge the lay term for it is Mini Xmas Tree.?
Unfazed by her ignorance about the tree, I decide that I am almost 100 percent sure that it is a Spruce and ?google? the best conditions for growing one indoors.
Fast forward a month from our last meeting in January, it is now February 23 and our writing group will be meeting on the 25th. It occurs to me that perhaps Sandra didn?t give herself a fir tree and can?t be in the contest. Perhaps that is the reason she sent a photo of her lemon tree. Apologizing for my insensitivity to her situation, she admits to not having a purchased a fir tree for herself, but assures us that it?s okay, and ?she is just happy to see us all enjoying the trees.?
?One less person competing for ?the best tree?,? I think, and I notice I am feeling competitive about the contest! Or am I just enjoying the energy, focus and fun of the contest idea? I mull over these thoughts.
An hour later an unexpected note comes from Rose. Her email states that she has withdrawn her entry from the tree contest based on a terrible mistake made by her partner Michael. She says
?Several days after posting the photo of my amazing tree, - clearly ahead of the pack, I walk into the kitchen only to find Michael snipping the magnificent height extension on my tree!!!!
His explanation that it was getting too spindly and that his trimming would help to make it bushier (its? a Tree-not a bush) was exasperating, but I have to own it-I had failed to inform him about our ?Competition?, and so he was simply ignorant of the situation.
I feel that under the circumstances,? she adds, ?I need to disqualify my tree from the competition.
Sadly, I remain
Distraught
-R?
Although I try to convince Rose not to give up the competition, pointing out that a short fat tree can be very stylish, Rose is not persuaded.
As if this were not shocking enough, less than an hour later, a note comes from Lynn.
?My sickly tree cannot compete?, she states. ?It really needs foster care.
Out of shame, she adds, ?I put the tree in the basement when we were having a party and forgot that it was there.
I saw a TV piece about these holiday trees?, she adds, ?Apparently they do not adapt well to the house because they are outdoor trees. They also do not adapt well to the garden in the spring after being in the house for the winter. Me thinks that mine is a lost cause.?
I can understand Lynn?s tree suffering from being forgotten in the basement and sympathize with her memory lapse, but I feel that the mention of the TV piece about holiday trees could be considered ?slap in the face? to Sandra.
As if the withdrawal of two contestants is not enough, four hours later there is a note from Gail. The subject line reads: ?Tree confessions from me.? In point form she writes:
?1. I trimmed mine a couple of times to maintain shape, didn?t feel any guilt?as ?best in show? animals given much primping/prepping for showtime.
2. Have long harboured feelings of wanting to chuck the tree out as:
a) Have moved on from Xmas decor
b) The space it inhabits on the window sill is valuable real estate in my down-sized life.
Thank goodness we've all had this chance to get things off our conscience to each other, she adds, now I know how it feels to be Catholic.
Enjoy yourselves tomorrow. Gail?
An hour later Michele, on a triumphant note supports the contest with her thoughts:
?I?m with you Kelsey?my tree has been in the hands of tree baby sitters and is looking a little rough around the edges but dang, I?m up to the challenge of bringing it back up to snuff. And well the amaryllis is still rocking and rolling at 3 ½ feet with its 2nd set of blooms?.?
Encouraged by Michele?s enthusiasm for the contest I am pleased that tomorrow we?ll
meet together, but without Gail who unfortunately for us, is vacationing in Miami, Florida
Much has been left hanging in the air. Three contestants have defaulted. Michele and I are vying for being the contest winner. Categories for prizes have been suggested, but not agreed upon. How will we revive the spirit and excitement of the contest? Who will judge the winner? Will Michele?s success with the Amaryllis skew the judging in her favour?
Under the circumstances, I know it?s going to be impossible for me to sleep tonight.
March 24th, 2020
It feels as though our world has changed since the ?little Spruce tree? contest began, mainly the worry about the COVID 19 virus which has progressed to the point that in Ontario, as of the past few days, all services have been cancelled other than essential ones
My little Spruce doesn?t reflect the bigger world situation, however. I continue to care for it, watering it when it dries out, sometimes fertilizing it. My intention to bring the tree to Sheridan Nurseries and consult with my contact person, ?Jennifer?, who has successfully transplanted Orchids, Hibiscus and other plants for me, is no longer an available option. Sheridan Nurseries is temporarily closed until April 5th.
Having an absence of set rules, as to what is fair game in the contest, I hadn?t considered it cheating to bring my Spruce to Sheridan Nurseries for observation and information. While I feel that the tree is growing, I am not certain about how well it is doing. There are brown spikes in the new growth at the top, but I remember now that our pine trees in the spring often had brown on their new growth which later disappeared. Michele might know, but I don?t want to point out any possible deficits in my tree under her eagle eye. The Contest has not been closed at this point, likely one of the very few things still open in Ontario.
With these thoughts running through my mind, plus feeling aware of the Virus restrictions, I decide that I will withdraw emotionally from the Contest. How to begin? Attitude change, I decide. Isn?t that always the first step toward a happier way of looking at things. Why compete with my friends, my fellow writers? ?Compete with yourself,? my inner voice directs me. Ask yourself, ?how does your little Spruce look now? How did it look when you first received it from Sandra on December 11th? Does it look healthier, larger, greener? Are there less dead brown tips on the top edges than before? How am I doing as a gardener, as a protector of one of nature?s little creatures? What does it matter about a colleague?s tree?
Almost immediately I feel better. I am in competition with myself only. Like the exercise program for seniors I have been following on You tube, the Coach says: ?you are only competing with yourself; how you do today, and how you will tomorrow, it?s all about you, no one else. Ask yourself, why am I here, what are my goals, and be proud that you showed up.?
I have been focused on winning, what a childish attitude! Why not enjoy my little tree on my own? If I wish, I can send photographs to the other contestants showing how my tree is doing compared to theirs, but I won?t count on a prize.
Luckily my old thinking has changed, and I will enjoy the contest results, whatever they may produce.
Sandra judged the contest, and my tree won the ?widest? tree prize. I had thought that I would get prizes for extra care of the tree, most supportive of the contest, and admit to being disappointed with the results, in spite of my new attitude of not caring.
Post Script:
One year later, April 9, 2021. My little Spruce tree is still alive having wintered outside in a home-made Styrofoam box wrapped in burlap to keep it cozy and frost free. In a week or two I will send the other contestants a photograph of my tree. Maybe I can convince them to revive the contest for this year.
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