I have two skyscraping Blue Spruce in my front yard. I have “guestimated” that they are 100 years old; and that the first owner of my house planted to guard the yard. I have no proof as I have not begun research into the previous life of the house.

The squirrels tell me it is so. The red house finches darting inside the branches (and hidden by the abundance of needles) and out again also tell me it is so. The Eurasian Collared Doves land across the street on oaks new to the ancient forest and they tell me it is so. The family of cats that eat at my porch tell me it is so, too.

With so much consensus about the nature of the twins in my yard, I have decided to accept their charge of the neighborhood. So I’ve begun to wonder what sights they have seen in this spot. 

Perhaps they weren’t far from the edge of the Rio Grande when it rolled and lobbed through the ancient floor of the Valley. Perhaps they saw an early automobile like the Chevrolet Classic 6 Series and heard the tinny horn. Maybe the titans grew to such stature because children played and roller-skated in their shade. I do believe these firs saw the houses being built around them. 

So today the squirrels scamper up the trunks and chase each other to farthest height of the tree. They yak at each other and the birds who fly too close. Still the trees are tall and straight with an enormous span of natural hugs.  As I water the ground underneath, I imagine the water running up the roots and the internal trunk system of my friends.  The grass grows even in the shade here and different species of animals all grow and play here.  The neighborhood children ride their bikes down the broken cemented sidewalk and onto the less-traveled by street and then up the ramp to the sidewalk again. Just a couple houses down, the trees watch a father roll the basket ball hoop onto the road and his boys and girls play basketball for hours.

As for me, it’s a welcome breath of peace and natural wonder to hear the chimes ring as the population living under the trees comes alive each morning when the sun kisses the needles of the spruces. Sometimes I count every Chickadee and identify them by their colors and feathers; sometimes I smile at the squirrel on the picnic table; and other times, I get a hidden peek at the young cats munching their morsels provided by Cats Alive.  Thank you Cats Alive; what good work you do.

—Nelda Curtiss is a retired college professor who enjoys writing and fine arts. Contact her at [email protected]