I saw my first tree today. Dad finally broke down and took us to East Boston Urban Center after Mom had been harping on it for the past two weeks. I think he was glad we went after all, because he was smiling quietly all during the trip back.

Question

Dad used to tell me stories about the trees that still existed when he was a boy. There weren’t very many even then, with the urbanization program in full swing, but most people had seen at least one tree by the time they started school. It wasn’t like nowadays, at any rate. Oh, I’ve seen the plastic trees; practically every street has a few of them. But you can tell the plastic ones are artificial just from looking at pictures in the microdot library.

This morning when we got up, the house was all excited. Mom dialed a light breakfast of toast and synthetic milk so that we wouldn’t waste time eating. And when finished, the three of us took an elevator-bus up to the fourth level, where we caught the air track to Brooklyn. From there we took another elevator-bus down to main level, rode the monorail to Intercity Subway Station 27, and caught the second sublevel AA train to Boston. Our expectations were so high that Dad and I didn’t mind it when Mom told us again how the tree was discovered.

The O’Brien home was one of the few examples of old-style wooden structures that hadn’t been demolished in Boston’s urban-renewal campaign at the turn of the century. The family had been able to avoid this because of its wealth and political influence, and the house was passed on through several generations to the present. Old man O’Brien had no heirs, so when he died the family home went up for auction, and the Urban Center bought it. When local officials arrived for an appraisal, they discovered that the house had a back yard, which is forbidden by zoning restrictions.

In the yard was a live tree — an oke was what Mom called it. When the news of the tree’s discovery leaked out, quite a few sightseers stopped by to have a look at it, and the local government, realizing the money-making potential, began charging admission and advertising the place. By now it had become a favorite spot for school field trips and family excursions such as ours.

When we arrived in main Boston we rode the elevator-bus up to ground level and caught a monorail out to East Boston Urban Center 3. An air-cush taxi took us the rest of the way to the residence.

The home itself was unimpressive. It had none of the marble gloss or steely sheen of modern buildings, but was rather a dull white color, with the paint peeling in places. Dad paid the admission fee, and we spent the next 15 minutes on a dull guided tour of the house. The rooms were roped off to keep people from touching anything, but there were no windows facing the illegal back yard anyway, so it really didn’t matter that I couldn’t enter the rooms on that side.

My mind was on the tree, and I thought the inside tour would never end, but soon we were walking through a doorway hidden in one of the bookshelves and into the back yard. The yard was big — at least 10 by 20 feet — and I was surprised to find real grass growing on the sides of the concrete walkway built for tourists. The grass didn’t distract me for long, however, because I just couldn’t help noticing the tree!

It was located at one end of the yard, and there was a mesh fence around it for protection. It was similar in form to the plastic trees I’d seen, but there was much more to it than that. You could see details more intricate than in any artificial plant. And it was alive. Long ago someone had carved their initials in the bark, and you could see where the wound had healed. But best of all was the smell. It was a fresh, living odor, alien to the antiseptic world outside with all its metal, plastic, and glass. I wanted to touch the bark, but the fence prevented me from doing so. Mom and Dad just breathed deeply and stared up with smiles on their faces. The three of us stood there for a moment, and then the tour guide told us to make room for the next group. I didn’t want to go — in fact, I felt almost like crying.

On the way back home, Mom and Dad were silent, and I read through one of the brochures the guide had passed out. When I came to the part that said the O’Brien home would be open only for the rest of this year, I was sad. They intend to tear down the place to make room for some kind of insurance building, and the tree will have to go, too.

For the rest of the trip, I just sat still, fingering the object in my pocket which I had picked off the grass in the O’Brien’s back yard. I think it’s called an acorn.

Lentini A. Autumntime: UPD Publ. Corp., N.Y., Galaxy, Nov.-Dec. 1971. After extensive research, we have not been able to locate the copyright holder for this work. Please email us at permission if you are the rights holder.

Notes
AllDefinitionsFootnotes
Urbanization (noun) : the process by which cities are formed and become larger as more and more people begin living and working in central areas
produced artificially
someone legally entitled to a person’s property upon that person’s death

an estimate of what a home is worth
Intricate (adjective) : detailed
Antiseptic (adjective) : extremely neat, sterile, and clean, occasionally to the point of harshness

write this on a 8th grader level bot

Answer 1

My First Tree Experience

Today was a special day because I saw my first real tree! Dad finally took us to the East Boston Urban Center. Mom had been talking about going for weeks, but it turns out Dad enjoyed the trip too because he was smiling quietly on our way back home.

Dad used to tell me stories about the trees that were around when he was a kid. Even back then, there weren't many trees because the urbanization program had started. Most kids had seen at least one tree before starting school—but not anymore. Nowadays, all I've seen are plastic trees on the streets. Even from pictures in the microdot library, you can tell they’re fake.

This morning was exciting! Mom made a quick breakfast of toast and synthetic milk so we could get going. After breakfast, we took an elevator-bus to the fourth level, caught the air track to Brooklyn, then took another elevator-bus down, hopped on a monorail to Intercity Subway Station 27, and finally caught the second sublevel AA train to Boston. Dad and I didn’t mind going through all that travel because we just wanted to see the tree!

The O’Brien house, where the tree is located, is one of the few old wooden buildings that hasn't been torn down in Boston. For a long time, the family who owned it had enough money and power to keep it. When the owner died, the house went up for auction, and the Urban Center bought it. When officials came to check it out, they found out about the backyard—something that isn't allowed by city rules.

And guess what? There was a real tree in the backyard! Mom called it an "oke." When word got out about the tree, many people came to see it, and the government saw a chance to make money. They started charging for visits and advertising the place. Now it’s a popular spot for school field trips and family outings like ours.

When we finally got to Boston, we took the elevator-bus to the ground level, caught a monorail to East Boston Urban Center 3, and then took a taxi to the house. The place wasn’t much to look at; it was a dull white and had some peeling paint. Dad paid for our tickets, and we had to sit through a tedious 15-minute tour of the inside of the house. The rooms were blocked off, and there were no windows facing the backyard, so I could hardly wait to see the tree.

When we finally stepped into the backyard, I was blown away. The yard was big—at least 10 by 20 feet—with real grass growing next to the concrete path. But what caught my eye was the tree! It stood at one end of the yard, protected by a mesh fence. It looked somewhat like the plastic trees I’d seen, but it had so much more detail and was clearly alive. You could even see where someone carved their initials into its bark and how the tree had healed over time. And the smell—it was so fresh and different from the cold, clean world of metal and plastic that surrounded us. I wanted to touch the bark, but the fence was in the way. Mom and Dad just stood there, breathing in the air and smiling. I wanted to stay forever, but soon the tour guide said we had to make room for the next group. I felt like crying; I didn’t want to go.

On the ride back home, Mom and Dad were quiet, and I read through a brochure the guide handed us. When I learned that the O’Brien home would only be open for the rest of the year before being torn down for some new building, I felt sad. They plan to take the tree away too.

As I sat quietly during the trip home, I kept fiddling with something in my pocket—a small object I had picked off the grass in the O’Brien’s backyard. I think it’s called an acorn.

Author: Lentini A. Autumntime: UPD Publ. Corp., N.Y., Galaxy, Nov.-Dec. 1971.