The Totara Tree

The Totara Tree.

By Sara Lee

The tree stood at the end of a long drive and was said to be over a 100 years old. It shadowed a crumbling, broken home, rusty iron flapping in the strong winds that came irregularly, but viciously. It was almost 20 metres high and it’s trunk was well over a metre and a half wide. Its limbs stretched over the roof of the abandoned house, seeming to protect and nurture it.

Michael and Suzy stood below it, looking up into its thick canopy; a few of the bright red, berry like cones visible amongst the needle-like leaves. Suzy stripped pieces of the flaky bark, running the purplish, papery flakes between her fingers as she fought for her totara. Michael, a city boy, raised to always look for that opportunity to make money couldn’t understand Suzy’s obsession with the totara. She was a country girl, brought up on the family farm under the shadow of the giant totara. 

“This tree has been growing for over a 100 years”, Suzy begged him to understand. “My mother was sitting under this tree sharing a picnic when my father proposed to her. He understood the love she had for the tree. They married under this tree. The marquee was erected closer to the beach as my mother wanted the splendour of our tree to be only the backdrop for their vows.  I’ll show you the photos. The tree features in most of them. It signifies strength and resilience. Hope”.

“But no one lives here now. The old homestead is rotting wood and flapping tin. It’s dangerous in a high wind. I don’t understand why the tree can’t bring beauty to a piece of furniture or wooden floors. It could live on in Jamie and John’s dream house. Jamie has always wanted native timber floors. They’re willing to pay big bucks for it. They were so excited when I told them of your tree. I don’t understand you; you’re being unreasonable. Your tree won’t die, it will live on in beautiful floors”

Suzy’s father had farmed the land. His sheep dogs slept in the shadow of other totara planted much later than the original tree and away from the homestead. He liked to take his old rickety chair out under the totara at the end of the day, beer in hand. Suzy, as a child would run around with Pocket, their Jack Russell before they stretched out at her father’s feet together, exhausted. Sometimes her mother joined them if dinner was almost ready.  On special occasions, they dragged the old wooden table out under the totara and ate Christmas dinner or family birthdays in the shade of the tree. 

Thirty years earlier, Evelyn, Suzy’s grandmother sat reading under the totara. She loved to read under the shadow of the huge tree. It provided shelter from the fresh winds that often flowed in from the sea. The tree calmed her as she worried about James away at war. They had hurriedly planned and prepared a wedding one week before he sailed out for some far off land, they had never heard of, until James caught the war fever. He was excited to fight for his country as New Zealand joined Britain in their battle against Hitler.

Evelyn sensed something different and looked up to see her mother standing behind her. There was something in her eyes, an expression on her face of distress. The tears came even before her mother said the words, “James has been killed”. Evelyn had always known James was just hers for a short time. The tree was their special place. It had calmed her on those nights when the dread was unbearable, the fear and uncertainty robbing her of sleep. She came out and hugged the tree just as James had told her. “When I’m not there, hug the tree and think of me hugging it back from the other side just as we have hundreds of times’. That was their thing. They would each reach from one side of the tree until their hands met circling the giant tree; too big to ever reach around individually. Somehow it connected them to each other and reminded them of their faith in God.

She wondered, did James get her letter before he died telling him of the baby growing inside her. Their baby, conceived while trying to make time for each other amongst James’s preparations to go to war. They frantically packed as much love and hope into each other, as James packed his bag. Memories were created to comfort and keep them connected with the miles between them. Evelyn fingered the wooden cross she wore around her neck on a simple strand of leather. James had carved it from a broken limb that had fallen from their tree and given to her for her 21st birthday. 

James’s grandmother Hera, had been Maori and told stories of Tane, the God of the forest who watched over them and should always be respected and cherished. She sat under the tree weaving baskets and mats from the flax that grew near the beach. She collected great armfuls of flax, always remembering to say a prayer of thanksgiving for the flax as she gathered it. Hera taught James about his Maori culture and he played rugby with the local team. His dream was one day to be in the Maori All Blacks, but that dream was now broken. 

Hera met James’s grandfather Jonathon, when she cleaned for his family. Jonathon came from a settler’s family immigrating to New Zealand in the late 1800’s. They looked down on the Maori who worked for them, seeing them as servants. Jonathan was disowned when he married Hera. Together they built a small cottage and planted the totara tree nearby.  When Jonathan died in the 1918 influenza pandemic leaving Hera pregnant and alone, his sister Susan disobeyed her parents and reached out to Hera and her baby. Together Susan and Hera watched the totara grow, from the small seedling taking its shelter from the cottage, to a tree big enough that Hera could sit under it and weave her baskets in her old age. James’s father told him stories of family and the community sitting under the totara tree waiting for the hangi to be lifted out of the ground; steam and the smell of slowly and tenderly cooked meat tantalizing their taste buds. Hera always watching the children to ensure no one was burned, and later teaching the young ones to do poi and dance.  They sang waiata and karakia was always part of their family gatherings. The totara tree standing guard over them.

Now, generations later, Michael was silent and Suzy thought he was angry, but he was touched by the story of the tree. To him it had just been a tree. He had seen it as an opportunity to make some money out of a tree that was going to fall over in the next big wind. “You’re right, Suzy, it would be disrespectful to sell the totara for its wood. It has so much history and holds so many stories from your family. But wouldn’t it honour the tree more to fell it before the wind does. To save as much as possible of it and to build something beautiful from it. Something that will live on. Yesterday, you mentioned your church was looking for a cross to adorn the new building; something special. Do you think your tree could provide the wood to honour God in the new church? The story of the tree symbolizes for me, the hope and comfort as God looks over us, seeing the most meaningful times in our lives, comforting, sheltering, protecting, and celebrating new life.  How amazing if it could live on in a cross that represents God’s love for us”.

Suzy and Michael stood at the end of the long drive holding hands and watched as the totara tree was carefully cut down and lowered reverently to the ground. Hera’s great granddaughter prayed and a waiata was sung as the tree came to rest. A gentle breeze accompanied their singing and the master craftsman eagerly examined the wood that he would carve into their new cross. The tree would live on.

Sara Lee