I used to think a magical tree grew in my Grandmother’s yard. Not only did I think that, but I believed it wholeheartedly, the way some kids my age believed in the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. It all started in fifth grade, the year I learned about the magic maple.

It was fall, which meant back to school; which meant another year of being tortured by my classmates. As far as I was concerned the only good part of fall was the weekends. The weekends were when my family spent time with my grandmother at her house in the country. No matter how bad school got, Grams was always there for me, comforting me and patiently coaxing me out of my sadness.

One weekend, after a particularly harsh round of jeering and teasing at school, Grams couldn't find anything to cheer me up. So, as a last ditch effort, she started to tell me a story. A story of a magical tree. A story of a magical tree that solved the world's greatest problems. A story of a magical tree that could make treaties and peace, or war and hate. Many visitors came, hoping the tree would grant them the answers they needed. At the end of the story, she could tell that I was still unimpressed with her tale. Before I could ask what the point of her story was, she pointed out the window to a gnarled, ancient maple tree in her backyard. Apparently, she wanted me to believe that her tree, a withered old stick in the ground, was the magic tree from her tall tale. Yeah, right, whatever. But, I knew if I didn’t go out and sit under the tree, I would hurt Grams’ feelings, and my mother would skin me alive if she found out!

Reluctantly, I walked out to the backyard with Grams and we sat under the old maple, leaning our backs against its rough trunk. I sat and waited, waited, waited. The silence was deafening. I turned to Grams and demanded to know why the tree wouldn’t solve my problems. She just laughed and told me that I just had to ask my question. So, I did. I closed my eyes, relaxed and voiced whatever adolescent problem I had that day. After a while of sitting in hushed silence, Grams began talking. I wasn’t really paying attention to our conversation because I was waiting for my answer, but all of the sudden there it was! The answer that had eluded me all day, appeared right in front of me. I jumped into Grams’ arms, thanking her profusely for letting me use her magnificent magic maple.

And so it began, every weekend I went to Grams’ and every weekend Grams and I sat under the arcing boughs of her painfully beautiful maple. I always let it speak to me and bring clarity to my thoughts. I solved all of my problems just like that, with Grams and the tree right by my side.

Two years later, tragedy struck my family when Grams passed away suddenly. I couldn’t believe it. I was losing my two best friends; Grams and my maple tree. When I realized how much I was losing, I went into a blind panic, desperately trying to think of a way to keep my tree. But, to my despair, I came up empty.

That is, until one fall day much like the first day I sat under the tree, but this day was much different. This day was the day we officially sold Grams’ house. The day I sat under my tree for the very last time. There was a breeze and I watched in fascination as all of the seeds came raining down from the tree like tiny helicopters, spinning rapidly through the air until coming to a rest on the ground beside me. As they did, a sudden thought struck me. Maybe I could take my tree with me after all. I picked one up and tucked it into my pocket.

For months thereafter all I did was nurture my seed. I was determined to grow my very own magic tree. As my maple grew, I sat next to it. Waiting and waiting and waiting. To my disheartenment my tree was not magical. I could feel myself sinking; I didn’t think I’d be able to go on.

But, of course, I did. All the time I spent talking with Grams under the maple made me believe that the tree held all the answers. I know now that that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t the tree itself, but the company I had. Grams knew everything about me and could help me to solve the problems in my life. Now, with kids of my own I know that it’s not the materialistic “things” that make the difference in a child’s eyes, it’s the people in their lives who shape him, his family roots are what makes him grow into a strong and independent person, giving him the ability to bloom and branch out into his life with a solid structure beneath him.