By JIMMY DUNNE | Contributing Writer

Last night I couldn’t sleep. Got up at the crack of dawn—and drove into the Palisades to knock a few things off my “to-do” list.

One on this list was promising I’d help hang a few signs on some trees in town. It’s a new initiative about saving trees in the parkways—those areas on the other side of the sidewalks in front of houses. I’ll explain later …

I parked on Bestor, walked up to a couple of pretty big sycamore trees in parkways in front of cleared lots.

I figured I’d stick my signs there.

The sun was barely sneaking through, and I wrapped a ribbon and this little sign that said: “Save the Trees” around a couple of ’em.

————

It was so quiet. Nobody up and at ’em yet. Still a little dark. The best time of the day. Birds still snoozin‘.

Put a ribbon ’round a big one. With my arm already around the thing, kinda gave it a hug.

I read somewhere it makes you feel good to do that.

Maybe I hugged it a little longer than you’re probably supposed to.

It didn’t matter. Nobody was looking. I had nothin‘ else to do.

————

While I was hugging it, I started thinking about the bugs and ants probably crawling up on me. But it did feel good, so I just kept huggin‘ it anyways.

I had my ear sorta against the tree. I don’t know how to say this—so I’m just gonna say it.

————

I heard something.

It was really quiet. But I definitely heard something. Like it was in there.

Startled me. I stepped back from the tree. Lookin‘ around.

Nobody anywhere.

I hugged it again. Stuck my ear against the tree like it was before. Nothin‘.

Stepped away. Thought about how I was probably just going nuts. I am gettin‘ to that age.

I gave it one more hug.

Then I heard it. That same, real quiet … voice.

“I’m still here.”

Now I definitely jumped away. Looking around for some guy in the bushes from “Candid Camera” or something.

Put my ear against the tree again, giving it a hug.

It said, “Feels nice. I needed that.”

“You what? Is there somebody in there? Who is this?”

“It’s me. The tree.”

————

It was like a this young mom’s voice. A little Icelandy. Calming.

“What do you mean, ‘It’s you, the tree?’” I backed off.

“I can’t hear you when you walk away,” she sweetly said.

“Stay.”

I came back. Got real close.

“Maybe nobody ever asked us anything,” the tree said. “There aren’t many people walking around early in the morning giving us a hug.”

“You tell ’em, Liv,” mumbled the next tree over in this Canadian guy, lumberjack-ish voice.

I looked over to the other tree like it was supposed to nod at me or something.

“So, you’re not the only tree that can do this?”

“No,” kind of laughing. “Lots of us can do it. We just don’t do it very often.”

“Maybe I just wanted to thank you,” the tree said. “For saving us. You don’t know what it means.”

Embarrassed, I said, “Well, there are so many people doing miles more than me with this initiative. I’m just a dad hanging a few signs.”

With a smile in her voice, “Then please give ’em a hug for me.”

The tree paused. I could tell something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Ahh,” the tree was thinking. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

After a moment, “It’s that the fire, it hurt us, too,” the tree admitted.

“Many trees that are gone—were here before there was a town,” she said. “We knew the first settlers—knew every new family over all the years. And, in one night, so many trees are just gone.”

“But the ones that are here are really worried,” said the tree. “And a lot are burnt … badly. And many of us so dry, so dry—and wondering if we’re gonna make it.”

I promised, “The town is here for you now.”

“The trees, we were here that night,” she said. “We saw it, we felt it all happening, all around us. I can’t think about it.”

And then she said, “And it’s not just us,” she said. “There are a lot of friends who live in our trees. We were its home. It’s home.”

She took a breath before continuing.

“You know who used to live up in my arms? A pair of wonderful owls. They’d hoot to each other when the moon was bright, soft and low, like old lovers whispering secrets.”

“And in that hollow there, the squirrels would stash their acorns,” she fondly remembered.

“Every spring, every spring the mockingbirds came back to the same branch, same one,” she said. “Loud little show-offs, singing every song they ever heard.

“Bluejays, wrens, woodpeckers—we had the whole orchestra.”

“I didn’t know,” I whispered. “Because of your leaves, you seem okay.”

She said, “I understand. So many trees, like so many Palisadians, they look fine—but they’re struggling.”

She sighed, “The quiet after the fire isn’t peace—it’s lonely.”

There was silence for a long moment, just the wind rustling through her leaves.

And the tree said, “When people in town water us, it’s more than water.”

“It’s a kind of promise. Every drop says you still believe in us. That maybe the birds will come back, and the bees will hum again, and the laughter will swing from my branches once more.”

I never thought of it that way.

“And the families in the neighborhoods … ?” she said. “We were a part of their lives.”

“They made us feel proud. And valuable. We just want to blanket them again with our leaves. Give them oxygen to breathe,” she tried to say.

The tree broke down. Just tore me apart.

“I used to have a swing on one of my arms,” she said. “Do you know how many kids have been on my swing? How many smiles I’ve seen? How many parents I’ve watched—having that moment?

“Do you know how beautiful that is to me? How their joy—is my joy?

“I don’t have that now.

“I don’t have my family of trees around me now.”

————

I softly said, “I promise the town’s coming back. And your friends will make their home again in your tree.”

I leaned up against her in the silence.

I asked the tree, “You’ve known families in this neighborhood for a hundred years. Deep, deep down, what do you think is going to happen? Will it ever be the same?”

“That’s easy,” said the tree, with the dearest voice.

“No.”

“Our trees, our animal friends in our trees, all the families in the homes …  Will never be the same.”

The tree said, “The most beautiful thing of all … is who we get to become.”

“To become,” said the tree. “What a wondrous thing that is.”

I gave the tree a tight hug.

Said goodbye.

Looked around. Looked up.

Saw everything around me in a way I haven’t seen it in a long, long time.

And wondered who we will become.

---

‘Save Our Trees’ Palisades Initiative

This homegrown town initiative is about the trees in the parkways (the areas between the sidewalks and the streets). They’re owned by the homeowners, but the city controls them. With all the homeowners gone, no one is caring for these many hundreds of trees.

This is one of those initiatives that makes the Palisades the Palisades.

It’s founded by Palisadians, funded by Palisadians, and the companies owning the water trucks are all Palisadians.

Five days a week, Tracey Price’s and Valeria Serna’s water trucks are now watering from Marquez to Chautauqua. This initiative will be felt for generations.

Cheers to the heart and talents of the “Save Our Trees” team—including the Palisades Forestry Committee, Cindy Kirven, David Card, Price, Serna, Sue Kohl, Cindy Simon, Bruce Schwartz—along with Arus Grigoryan and Traci Park.

And the initiative’s generous and passionate donors—CD11 Foundation and PPCC.

---

Jimmy Dunne is a modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter (28 million hit records), screenwriter/producer of hit television series, award-winning author, an entrepreneur—and a Palisadian “Citizen of the Year.” You can reach him at j@jimmydunne.com or jimmydunne.substack.com.