Redbud trees seem to live forever

Is it possible that redbud trees live forever?

Of course not, but it sometimes seems that way.

Their branches are brittle and often break off, littering the lawn.

And sometimes, whole sections will die away, only to have a series of healthy twigs and branches shoot off in a new direction as they seek the sun.

My first experience in business involved redbud trees.

I was maybe 9 or 10 at the time, and my father had asked me to clear out a sort of thicket on one edge of our yard. It was full of redbud volunteers, some little more than weeds, others like sticks, and some pretty good sized.

Somehow, I got the idea that if I had to clear the little trees, I ought to sell them. So I posted a sign in the front yard and launched Pleasant Street’s first redbud nursery.

Prices ran — as I recall — from a quarter to a dollar and a quarter. And for the bigger trees, I would help with the planting.

As business plans go, this one was lacking.

I did not get rich, though I sold a few trees and dug a few holes around the neighborhood.

But the trees struck me then and strike me now as incredibly durable, almost invincible.

All this comes to mind because of a redbud — an ancient one — in our next-door neighbor’s yard.

Every year it looks like it’s dead, and every year the pink blossoms and heart-shaped leaves appear. 

It’s a wonder that it’s still standing. One section of the trunk is so hollow it looks like something out of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” There’s a perfect place for Boo Radley to leave messages for Scout and Jem.

Another limb not only died years ago but broke off and has been suspended ever since between the redbud and the branches of a maple on our side of the property line.

Every once in a while, I’d toss a basketball at the suspended limb, hoping to knock it free. But it was just as persistent as the tree itself. It wasn’t going anywhere.

That is, until last week.

At some point during that endless series of squalls, a gust of wind gave it just the right push to dislodge it.

We came home one afternoon to find it lying in the wet grass.

Our neighbor was relieved. He’d worried that somehow his limb would end up on top of my wife’s car. Thanks to the storm, the sword of Damocles had been removed without any damage.

And the tree itself? I swear it looks as if it’s going to live forever.

Who knows? Maybe it’s one of those I planted back in the day.