Spirit Trees - Part Two

Last week I wrote a little bit about Spirit Trees, trees that at one time people in the Virgin Islands believed contained spirits. This week is not about Spirit Trees as such. It's about trees that have been around for a long time, old trees that I feel deserve some special attention. If these trees don't have spirits in them, they ought to.

In south east corner of Emancipation Gardens on St. Thomas, grows an ancient casha tree. This particular brand of Acacia (in the Mimosa family) is native to the Caribbean. How it managed to

survive is fodder for a story because these trees have brutal inch and a half to two inch long thorns that can pierce tires and shoe soles. It has lived through a time when the ocean lapped a few feet away, through the making and paving of streets and building of buildings. For some reason it was never targeted as a nuisance tree that should be gotten rid of. Instead, it was allowed to grow and its twisted ropy trunk is a wonder to behold.

Down the street from Emancipation Gardens is a park which dates back to 1764 and was originally called Coconut Square. In  1945 it was renamed Roosevelt Park to honor a visit made by Franklin D. Within the park are two baobab trees, the seeds of which were brought to the islands with slaves. These trees were definitely thought of as sacred because they provided food and shelter. There is one baobab on St. John (click on the link and you can see a picture of it) and another on St. Croix which is about 250 years old. Because these trees are basically filled with water they don't have rings so age is approximated by the diameter of the trunk. I have no idea how the trees are in Roosevelt Park, but they must be at least 200 years old. 

On St. John at Cinnamon Bay - home of the National Park Campground - there is this huge rain tree. They are native to Central and South America and probably came into the Caribbean with the various Indians as they migrated up the chain. That's my friend, Margaret on the left and me giving you an idea of its size.

The lignum vitae, also known as ironwood, is a very slow growing native of the Caribbean. The wood is so dense and heavy it sinks in water. Because it is self-lubricating and so hard it is still used for making bearings. It is the national tree of the Bahamas and Jamaica. They only grow to about 40 feet, but don't let the size fool you. This one at Cowpet Bay on St. Thomas is probably several hundred years old...

...as is this one in Cruz Bay, on St. John. As you can see, they tend to branch out low to the ground and make nice shade. Clusters of very pretty purple flowers bloom in the late spring.

I don't know what kind of tree this one is, but it can be found at Magens Bay on St. Thomas. Long ago a storm blew it over, but it kept right on growing. That's Margaret, demonstrating the width of the roots.

And this is a group of classmates posing on the trunk. I'm second from the left.

All of these trees are, to my mind, Spirit Trees. They have survived hurricanes, floods, earthquakes and human beings.

It seems the more gnarled and twisted a tree is, the more we love it. Certainly the older a tree is, the more we cherish it, respect it, honor it. We can see in those places where it has been scarred by life, and in its very rings, the history of time. Those scars give it character and we are awed by its ability to survive. We like to go to these trees and sit beneath them. We like to hug them. Some of us may even talk to them.

I have often wondered why we do not seem to look upon our elder human beings in the same way. Should not their wrinkles, their gnarled and twisted limbs and the scars they bear be as loved and cherished as an old tree?

Spirit Trees - Part One

Trees play a prominent roll in our psychology, mythology and collective unconscious. Yggdrasil, of Norse mythology, is the World Tree that supports the heavens. In the Bible we have the Tree of Good and Evil and the Tree of Life. Buddha sat under a Bodhi tree and attained enlightenment. There are oracle trees, wishing trees,  evil trees and sacred trees. They have roles in fairy tales and in modern literature - think of Treebeard, the Ent.

In long ago times in Africa there were Spirit Trees. These were trees under which people sat and told stories, where lovers met in secret, or where those who had lost a loved one went to mourn. They offered shelter, protection and comfort. 

This is a tamarind at Estate Whim on St. Croix. It
must be between 250 and 300 years old.

Among the more beloved of Spirit Trees was the tamarind. Native to tropical Africa, it was brought into the Caribbean with the slaves and is one of the most widely distributed trees in the world. They are slow growing and can reach 60 to 80 feet with a cool shady spread of 40 feet. The brown fruit pod, with delightfully sour brown meat, is used in many foods.

Flowers and fruit pod.

This ancient tamarind is on the trail between Lameshur  and Reef Bay on St. John. At some point in its life it was split in half. The hollow space inside is large enough for two or three people to stand in. In a pinch you could build a roof and live inside it.

It is easy to imagine groups of slaves, after a long day in the fields, sitting under these trees telling stories, passing on oral traditions. I think too, the tamarind may have provided a thin thread, connecting them to a homeland that was lost.

The kapok, or silk cotton tree, was considered magical and housed spirits called jumbies. These trees came into the Caribbean from South America. They can grow to 150 feet with buttress roots supporting their great height. The soft silky "cotton" from the tree was once used to fill life preservers.

I took this picture of the kapok tree at Caneel Bay with my little red Brownie camera when I was eight or nine. I think it's the only picture I took with that camera that has survived the ravages of time.

This is a kapok at Magens Bay on St. Thomas. That's my friend, Margaret, standing amid the roots to give you a sense of size.

Next week Monday, more about large spirit trees of the Virgin Islands.

Do you have any big old trees in your yard or near where you live? Do you hug old trees when you get the chance?

Up a Tree

Trees have figured prominently in my life.

This is the earliest picture of me taken by one. I'm standing in front of a small genip tree, circa 1956 Cruz Bay, St. John. Even though I’m wearing a little dress, the sash isn't tied and I am barefoot. It's a portent of things to come

The genip, (with a hard g) bears small round fruit between the size of a nickel and a quarter. It grows in bunches something like grapes. The fruit is covered by a leathery green skin which surrounds pinkish flesh. The pinkish flesh surrounds a large seed. The fruit is tart/sweet and ripens right around the time school begins and was always a favorite among the kids. Like spitting watermelon seeds, there were contests to see who could spit their genip skins the farthest.

It's faded, but I'm there, like a chameleon. This picture, taken around 1958, shows me in my favorite genip tree that grew by the house we lived in at Caneel Bay. 

The way my left hand is casually resting on the trunk of the tree, it looks like I’m standing in a doorway or next to a pillar.

I wasn't using the trunk to support myself, or to keep my balance on the branch. I simply had my hand on it like someone resting a hand on a doorjamb. I was totally unafraid of heights. (Not so any more.)

I loved that tree. I knew exactly where my hands and feet had to go to get me to my favorite branch.

My mother couldn't keep me out it, or any other climbable tree. She used to tell me, kidding of course, "You fall out of that tree and break your arm, I'll break the other one."

I never fell out of a tree and never broke bone. Well, I did break a small wrist bone, but I was in my early 30s and it happened roller skating.


Here I am at about 11 or 12 trying to climb a coconut palm. I was never successful getting more than a few feet up. There is a way to shimmy up them, but the technique eluded me.

I was a senior in high school when this picture was taken for the yearbook. The tree is a mango. I was wearing a ratty pair of jeans and an old blue denim shirt. I was NOT a prom queen/cheerleader type of girl. The Hat has a story all it's own which I blogged about HERE.

And it doesn't end there. My sweetie and I were married under a cedar elm.

We visited it on our 20th anniversary. All of us were still alive and well.

Were you a tree climber? Do you have a special tree memory? Did you ever have a tree house? Ever fallout of a tree?

The Hat: A Biography

In light of the recent death of our friend Gene, I thought this would be a nice story to tell.

Sometime between 1968 and ’69 Gene acquired a hat. Gene got The Hat from a friend of his. Who knows how long Gene’s friend had had it before Gene acquired it, but acquire it he did.

It was a black felt hat with a rounded crown and nice wide brim. It was the kind of hat one saw on the heads of Indians in those old Westerns.

When Gene got The Hat he punched the crown down, turning it into a hat that had more of cowboy look to it. He also added a simple three strand braided leather hat band. Into the band, on the left side, he added a couple of feathers, don’t remember what kind.

I coveted it terribly. Besides which it fit me perfectly and looked good on me. I pestered Gene until around 1970 he finally gave it to me. I pinned up the left side of the brim with an amethyst broach Grammy had given me. It was a cluster of leaves with a single large oval stone representing a flower bud. I still have the pin. The band and feathers remained the same.

I wore The Hat all the time.

In 1970 my senior high school class went to Caracas, Venezuela and Curacao. One day, while in Caracas (our visit there is a story in itself!) I was window shopping with a class mate. A man came running towards us, excited and speaking in Spanish which neither of us could understand. He pulled on our arms trying to get us to cross the street, pointing to another man standing in the door of a jewelry store. This second man was waving at us to cross the street.

We were naïve and stupid enough to comply. When I think back on that moment I realize we could have been kidnapped.

The up-shot was this: the man who pulled at our arms trying to get us to cross the street, had the shop owner translate. He had seen me in Curacao just a few days before and now, to see me in Caracas, was like a sign. He wanted to buy my hat. He kept making offers, but I kept politely refusing until he politely gave up. We all agreed it was truly amazing that he had spotted me on two occasions in two different locations, the second being such a huge city. What were the odds? It would be like someone seeing me in Bermuda then spotting me a few days later in New York City!

Later that same year, we four Denhams took a road trip. We flew up to Florida, bought a station wagon (the first and only Chrysler product Dad ever bought) and we drove out to California to visit Dad’s side of the family who lived around Clear Lake. While we were there Dad broke his foot. It was during this time that Mom, my sister Erva, and I went down to San Francisco and spent about a week exploring the city. All this time I’m wearing The Hat.

One day while walking through the city, Mom on one side of me, Erva on the other, a long-hair type (this is 1970, hippies were abundant) comes up to me, puts his hands on my shoulders and says very intently, “Your hat! I’ll give you anything for that hat!”

Of course I refused. He was polite enough and didn’t press too hard, but he was obviously disappointed when I wouldn’t give it up.

The Hat became a part of my costume. I wore it everywhere.

By 1980 The Hat was worn out. The inside sweat band had just about completely disintegrated, there were holes in the crown, and the brim was weak and thin from all the handling. But I couldn’t just throw it away, it meant too much to me.

In a tearful ceremony of farewell, I burned it. Little did I realize at the time I was also symbolically burning away a life-style I had out grown. The ashes of the old became fertilizer for the new ground I was just beginning to cultivate.

Thanks, Gene, for the memories.

This a newspaper picture taken the day we left on our class trip. It was taken by our class photographer, Les Francis, who is now a professional photographer, consequently, he isn’t in the picture. The ‘xed’ out person in the back is a stranger who did not belong in the shot. There I am squatting in the front row wearing The Hat.

I seem to be intently studying. I was in the school library when this picture was taken so it was study hall. It was also “free clothes day,” the last Friday of every month when juniors and seniors could wear street clothes instead of our uniform which was forest green and white. Mom made the outfit, a little short skirt and vest, from a mottled blue and white Merimekko fabric. The shirt was my favorite, a wonderful sort of pirate shirt, with buttoned cuffs that went nearly up to my elbows. Those earrings were stainless steel discs Dad gave me with holes drilled into them so I could link them together, there’s a third disc hidden behind the collar of my shirt. The binder was cloth covered in Stewart plaid. I am wearing rings on at least six of my fingers.

Also taken around 1970, another tree moment. This time I’m in a mango tree. That’s a little bell around my neck with yellow and orange seed beads strung on a piece of elastic thread. Another photo taken from a different angle went into our senior year book.

What a trip.

The Swing and the Mampoo Tree

Birthdays in my family were usually quietly celebrated at home. It was a day the celebrant didn’t have to do any of the usual household chores expected of them. Gifts were opened in the morning. At the end of the day a favorite dinner was prepared, there was a cake and, if we were lucky, there was ice cream too.

I’m sure all of that happened on my 10th birthday, but I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember any of the gifts I got either, except for one.

We were living up at Gift Hill on St. John. Probably after breakfast my father took us all outside. He had a surprise for me. We followed him out to the mampoo tree where he had things all set up, waiting for this moment. Then for the first and last time in my life, I saw him climb a tree. My mother was probably nervous watching him up there…would that branch hold his weight? Mampoos are softwood trees. There was a real danger the branch could break under him.

He shimmied out onto a limb and, with all of us directing him, carefully positioned two chains which were attached to a nice wide wooden board. My father’s present to me was a swing.

It wasn’t just a swing in a tree. One must close ones eyes and try to visualize where the swing was. The mampoo tree grew on a slight rise of ground with the hillside sloping away at its feet. The hill drops steeply down into the long, wide, deep valley of the Fish Bay ghutt. (Pronounced gut, it is a rocky wash, a gulley, where water flows when it rains.) The hills rise on the other side of the ghutt and continue east. The view is of the south side of the island. From the swing I could see the white cliffs of Reef Bay all the way to Ram’s Head Point. On clear days the conical hills of Virgin Gorda in the British Virgin Islands some 40 miles away, are visible. All of that is to the left. To the right, as far as the eye can see, unobstructed by islands, is the wide open expanse of the Caribbean Sea. I could watch the ocean change moods.

It was and still remains, a glorious and magnificent view.

Tree and swing were positioned in such a way that when I would swing it was like flying. I’d soar out into a great space, out over the valley, out over the hills swooping toward Reef Bay, and fly out over the vastness of the sea. Then, swinging back, I was embraced by the waiting, protective arms of the tree and brought safely back to earth. Out into space, back into arms – Out in space, back into arms.

I loved that swing and tree.

I thought of myself as a kind and benevolent queen who ruled over a fairy world inhabited by lizards, birds, insects and flowers. It was my job to keep everyone safe. It was my job to love that view, that tree, and all those creatures living within it. I knew no one would ever be able to love it as much as me. In my little girl mind, I thought without me to love that space, it would become lonely.

Two years later, when I was twelve, one of the greatest upheavals of my life took place. We had to move from Gift Hill. We had to move from St. John. We had to move to St. Thomas.

Oh, it was horrible! I didn’t want to move. Everything and everyone I loved was on St. John. And my kingdom…what would become of my kingdom? Who would love it? Who could love the tree, the view, the animals? Whose arms and legs would climb the tree and hug it? Whose ears would hear the rustle of lizards, the songs of birds, and understand their music? Who would protect it all and keep it safe? Who would keep it from being lonely? No one.

I agonized over it. I felt guilty for having to leave my kingdom. And I knew, deep in my heart, my kingdom would be just as lost and lonely without me and I would be without it.

What was I going to do? And then a solution came to me.

One day, not long before we left Gift Hill, never to return, I preformed a little ceremony and made a vow.

At the base of the mampoo tree there was a hollow space beneath the roots, a niche where I put special things like rocks and shells. It was also a place where I laid to rest dead lizards and birds I found. It was both a safe and a tomb, a shrine and an altar.

From somewhere I got a small round tin box with a lid, like a cookie or cracker tin. I went out to my tree and kingdom and this is what I did. I placed my hands on my chest, I cradled my heart in my hands and I carefully placed my heart in the tin. As I did that I told my tree and kingdom that I was leaving my heart with them. I told them they would never be lonely because I would always be with them. I vowed I would never take my heart away.

Then I put the lid on and took the tin and put it into the hollow place beneath the tree.

The consequences of making that vow, of leaving my heart at Gift Hill, made mysterious waves that washed up on the shores of my life, leaving behind odd bits of debris. I will only say that I was a kind of cripple because I was never able to be truly happy or content. There was always something wrong, I never quite fit anywhere I went later in life.

It was a long time before I realized how displaced and uprooted I was and why.

There came a day many years later that I stood in the place where once a tree had stood. It was gone by then, cut down, blown over in a storm….I stood there and knew I had to take back my heart else I would never be content no matter where I went or what I did.

I found my heart where I had left it, overlooking the view. I called it to me. I cradled it in my hands, I placed my hands on my chest and I put my heart back.

I told my kingdom I had to break my vow, because I could not live without my heart. With tears in my eyes I asked to be forgiven. Then I assured them a piece of me would always be with them, that I would never forget them, that I held the memory of my kingdom sacred and precious.

I felt a peace descend. The view, my kingdom, seemed to smile at me. I thought it would be sad, but it understood. We shared something between us that was ours and no one else’s. It is something that no one will ever be able to take away from us.

Today, right now, this instant, there is a little girl in her swing who is a benevolent queen of a mystical realm. She reigns eternally.

I am never far away from my kingdom nor is my kingdom ever alone. And somewhere in the soil are the chemical remains of tin box.

This picture was taken when I was about seven. To the right, in the back, is the mampoo tree. The brush around the tree had yet to be cleared, but the branch from which my swing was hung is visible. It arches away from the trunk, right to left, and seems to be bending down towards me. Note that I am wearing flip-flops. My mother is doing some weeding among the rocks. The two 55 gallon drums contain gasoline for the generator that gave us light at night and kerosene which was for our kerosene refrigerator. The dog is Happy, who deserves and will one day have, a book written about him.