Dear Readers,

I do all my writing in my cosy home office in Vancouver, a small fireplace for winter, a sheepskin for my little dog Lady (she's 16-plus years old), surrounded by equipment, supplies, photographs and memorabilia.

My office with its floor-to-ceiling window, faces the North Shore mountains and the ocean, Burrard Inlet actually, where freighters and cruise ships pass, seagulls screech and a pair of bald eagles hunt (we named them Skye and Empress when they first appeared and nested close by).

But what I truly love about this work area is a glorious pink dogwood tree, planted four years ago directly in front of the window.

It is in full bloom now and puts a smile on my face each morning when the curtains are pulled and the computer signals it is set for the day.

And every evening when Lady goes outside for that last call, I whisper good night near that dogwood and its larger companion maple tree, planted 10 years ago.

How does this relate to aging and care in Canada . . . let me explain.

Long ago, while participating in a CIDA project in Uganda, I was honoured to be invited by the visiting minister and a young local minister to attend a church service in Mityana, a village outside of the capital of Kampala.

It was close to 10 o'clock Sunday morning when I arrived.

Service was underway and, as was the norm, would continue non-stop for several more hours.

The church building was jam-packed, pews down the centre with chairs lining the sides, young drummers draped from the window ledges, grandparents, babies, relatives, good friends, listening, praying and singing joyously.

It was an unforgettable morning and part way through this intimate service, the local minister's wife asked me if I would like to take a break and go for a walk with her in the shade of her lush garden.

As we walked the dusty pathway, we chatted about her two young children, the village where her parents still lived in the northern part of the country, her husband's dreams to attend theology school.

At one point during our stroll, she stopped near a solitary tree that had been planted close to her house and asked me if I knew the importance of marriage-trees.

She told me that when a woman (from her tribe) is married, she must plant a tree on a pathway very close to her house.

And she must water and nurture this tree daily, never allowing it to be in stress or to die.

She explained that a healthy, young tree is selected and must be planted by the new wife immediately upon her wedding, to encourage her to tend to her marriage.

This particular tree is her responsibility solely.

A woman's marriage-tree is a tangible reminder that her marriage can never be neglected or it won't thrive and grow, that her marriage needs care and attention, everyday.

My times in Uganda left a remarkable imprint on my life in many ways.

Of course, since then, when a relative marries, I always send or deliver a tree of some sort (outdoor or bonsai depending on their type of residence) to the couple with a note explaining its significance.

But I've also taken this positive idea one step further and modified it to our lifestyle here.

When each of my parents died, I decided that their memory should be treasured daily, so I planted a maple tree for Dad and a pink dogwood for Mum in my yard, both close to the house.

Now I have substantial reminders and whether frantically busy or not, tending to these splendid trees, watering and watching them flourish in summer or gently brushing snow off of them in winter, I am able to stop for a moment, remembering both of my much-loved parents.

Lucy Larcom(poet, 1824-1893) wrote, "He who plants a tree, plants a hope".

So, just maybe, when the time comes and you lose someone close to you, you will be able to wade through the loss and then one spring afternoon soon after, you will take time to plant a special tree, a reminder of loving memories and hope for your future.

I like the idea of planting and caring for a "loved-one tree". Somehow it seems to fit well with many of the values we hold dear in Canada.

Good wishes, Patty

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