Electrifying Love Stories
Sandra List, Editor

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The Struck-by-Lightning Tree

Suzanne Mays

My name is Ada Johnson and for the beginning of my life I lived at a place called Fogged In Mountain. It was a rural place, far out in the country, that had forty acres of steep wooded hillside, a creek that ran close to the house, and a rutted driveway that went to the road.

The road was dirt for three long miles til you got to the hard road. The state crew came twice a year to grade it, but it was difficult, especially in winter, to live there. Over the years, most folks had moved away. There were still a few old falling down places, people came back to every summer. And there was still one mean old man who lived even farther up the road than I did. His name was Pappy. We were not kin, but since he'd known me all my life, he felt like he could tell me what to do. I always felt lucky to be born in a place that I liked, that way I never had to leave it.

My house was an old one. It was made of sawn oak logs that were chinked together and was exactly what you thought a log cabin should look like. It was a comforting house. Downstairs there was a large kitchen and a sitting room, with a stone fireplace in between them. Upstairs there were two small bedrooms under the eaves. Dad had enclosed the back porch for a bathroom, and I had running water and electric. It was exactly all I needed.

I built log cabins. Little ones, they're a doll house. I made all the parts from materials I got in the woods. I used small sawn logs, twigs, and little rocks for the chimney. My dad did this first and mom made all the extras. A tiny broom with real straw tied to a twig, cotton curtains, a stitched quilt for the bed, a rag rug for the floor. They did this as long as I remember, and after they died, I kept it up for myself.

The one thing that was different about my cabins was that I included my tree. There was a giant oak, before the house was. It was at least two hundred years old and had always been in my life, towering over the house like a huge protecting friend. Since the tree and the house were in my mind together, rooted to one another, it was natural for me to craft them together.

I loved my tree as much as my house. From my bedroom window, I looked out in summer and saw baby birds in their nests. In winter, I watched squirrels chase one another on branches piled with snow. And at night when I lay quiet and listened, my tree swayed in the wind above me and made peaceful, singing sounds to put me to sleep.

***

But then the storm came, it was an awful storm. It roared through my mountain with a horrible fierceness I had never known. It was a howling storm, mad, and angry. The hail raged on the roof until I thought it would whip away. The thunder crashed up and down, and each time I thought it could be no louder, it was louder. But the worst was the lightening, it seemed aimed directly at me. At first, it hit high on the hill, but that was just playing. When it struck the tree, I saw a gigantic arc of blue green out my window, then there was an instant loud, deafening crash. Great chunks of tree exploded outward, broke my windows and I dived beneath the table.

For a long time I cowered there, until the storm subsided. The din on the roof lessened and lessened, the sky lightened, and the wind became more peaceful. It was late afternoon and I stood in my open doorway and watched the rain drip off the roof of my porch. The smell of charred wood and smoke was all around me. I saw that my tree had a long clean split in its bark, from the point of impact at the top of the trunk, all the way down to the bottom. It was terribly wounded. For a long time, I watched the clouds move off and the rain drip, and I prayed in my heart for it to feel better.

Then Pappy's ancient truck ground down the mountain and I heard his door slam. He walked in my yard, kicked at the exploded chunks of wood, and hunched his shoulders into his jacket. He had a hard face, not a nice one. He had a dirty stubbled chin and a ratted cap and his eyes were fierce old hawk eyes. But on this day, as he stood in my yard, and his eyes went up and down my tree, he looked like he would cry any second. "It's done for, Ada."

I shook my head.

He shook his back."When a tree this big, gets hit this hard, it's got to come down, otherwise it'll fall on your house."

Pappy worked in lumber all of his life, but again I shook my head. "No,"I told him. "You'll see it will live. You'll see that." And I walked off my porch to the tree, to where there was this round indented place, which was really a knot. It was exactly my height and I put my hand there, because I knew it was the heart of the tree. And I closed my eyes and willed my energy, and all my healing into that wounded tree. And in my mind I said it over and over. Live. Live.

You know, I was in love once. His name was Billy. He was a good looking boy with soul blue eyes and sometimes he would tell me, "Ada, you and me, we got the same heart. We got the same mind. No matter what we do, we're always gonna be together." And I would just feel the rightness when he said it.

But Billy had a weakness, a sadness, a hole inside him couldn't nothing fill. Many a time I lay by his side when he was sleeping and put my hand on his heart, and if I could have filled that hole, I would have done it. He didn't live long. Mountain roads are hard in winter.

The day of the storm, it was March and I was cold and I was angry. I was thirty five years old. A big, capable woman who lived alone on her own land, and made her living with no one to help her. I lived rough, I guess I looked rough, I couldn't see no other way to be.

Spring came. My little creek gurgled and raced. The dirt road was a long and undulating mud hole. Everyday I went to my tree and put my hand on its heart, and everyday I gave it my love. And my tree leafed out. Tiny buds, they opened, they blossomed.

Pappy stood in my yard and shook his head. "That sap was already in there." He pointed to the center of the tree where the great limbs branched, to the exact center of the strike. It was charred solid black from the lightening, "All that's dead there, Ada. When it goes, it'll crack on your house."

Still, I shook my head.

And then he did the most extraordinary thing. He never said a word extra, or tried to start a conversation, but on this day he cocked his head to the side and his eyes caught at me. "Did you never hear of a tree that's been struck by lightening?"

"No."

"It's magic wood," he told me, "when you build something with it, it's stronger, when you burn it, the fire is brighter, and if you breathe in the smoke, you do crazy things." He was almost close to laughing.

But that just made me harder against him. I folded my arms across my bosoms and drew my head in like a turtle. "No." I told him.

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