Why The Dogwood Doesn't Grow Straight.

As a child I would sit with my father on our front porch listening to the stories of his life's experiences. He would sit in his rocking chair like a king on his throne. I would sit on the red brick steps gazing up at him.  Clutching a bottle of cream soda, I would take a swig from it every time he took one from his. I tried to mimic him, from the way he would wipe his mouth on his shirtsleeve, to the ever-satisfying "Aahh" that soon followed.

Some of the stories he told were from his days in the Air Force, others were of his early years of law enforcement, and some were old stories handed down from generation to generation: explanation of the family's distant relationship to Frank and Jesse James, where he was when President Kennedy was shot, and why the Dogwood doesn't grow straight...

It is an eccentric story of no sound scientific foundation, yet it has captivated me since those early years. If memory serves me correctly it begins on a hill in the Middle East, the wind is blowing, storm clouds are brewing, and a large crowd is gathering to witness the execution of two thieves and a prophet. The form of execution was called a crucifixion. Tree trunks were stripped of their excess branches and joined in the shape of a cross. When it was completed, the unfortunate soul was then nailed to it and the cross was raised. The tree of choice was, as the story goes, a Dogwood tree; its long, straight trunk was perfect for construction of a sturdy cross.

Suddenly, the crowd began to divide, an average looking man came stumbling down the middle of the gauntlet of spectators. He bore a large beam of wood across his shoulders. Upon his bloody head was a crown made of thorns, some one's idea of a joke. He fell to his knees at the top of the hill and was thrust on his back by the soldiers, they placed the beam on the long section of the cross and hammered it together.  They then drove spikes through his hands and feet, and lifted the cross into the air. Through his pain this prophet named Jesus, called to his Father and suffered for the forgiveness of his people.

The Dogwood community was outraged that it had been used to cause the pain and anguish of the son of God. They decided that from that day forward they would pay tribute to Jesus by blooming a flower in the shape of a cross. Its four petals would be tipped in red, like the blood that he shed from his wounds. The center would resemble a crown, celebrating the king of the Jews. And, to assure that such a tragedy would never reoccur the Dogwoods decided to grow twisted contorted trunks, thus making them useless in the construction of crosses.

Every spring I try to make it home and walk the hill in front of the old house. There is nothing quite like April with the Dogwoods in bloom. A sea of white ripples across the crest of the yard leading down to the lake in the basin. At dusk the blossoms reflect the remnants of the fading sun, glowing like a thousand tiny stars. The scent of azalea and honeysuckle mingle to form a nostalgic fragrance that fills the air. With it come the memories of bygone years when I would hunt for Easter eggs and sit on the red brick porch listening to stories.

I am approaching thirty, and this story still fascinates me. One day I hope that my little boy will look up at me the way I looked up at my father, and I will tell him stories of my life's experiences: tales of how we only had three channels on the TV, where I was when President Reagan was shot, and why the dogwood doesn't grow straight.