THERE WAS A SPOT IN MY FRONT YARD where I wanted to plant a medium-size tree. I chose a southeastern deciduous tree that, like most cats, has more than one name. It is a black gum, also called a sour gum, or a black tupelo, or just tupelo (or, if you want to get technical: Nyssa sylvatica). Just that one word – tupelo – has such a sweet, Southern sound, it alone is enough to attract someone to this tree. Although it is a slow grower (just one to two feet per year), it has some nice attractions about it. The bark, as the tree matures, takes on a look similar to alligator skin. I don’t have to tell you that, here in Florida, how partial we are to alligators. More importantly, in the Fall, it transforms into a wonderful autumn color. Mine turns a brilliant red-orange, about the color of a striking sunset. When neighbors walk past and ask me what kind of a tree it is, I always smile and say slowly… TU – PE – LO, letting the word roll off my tongue like tupelo honey. So I confess to being a lover of trees, and I especially revere them when they stand alone, like a lonely but confident person, the wind in their leaves, their roots in eternity. Trees live according to their own unwritten laws, and represent themselves pro se against environmental degradation and the march of time. When it’s old enough, I plan to give my tupelo a hug.
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