Our neighborhood may be quiet and unassuming, but I think I may have discovered a phenomenon that may make our name in the City, if not in the State, nay Country. Across from our house on Gorham Street is a tree that, when it rains, weeps soapsuds.
Yeah, well I didn’t believe it either, smart guy, but I noticed it once during the first monsoon day the last part of April and figured maybe some prankster had set his washing detergent bottle in the tree, hence the waterfall. But on closer inspection I saw nothing out of the ordinary in or on the trunk—just a large red maple glistening in the rain and chugging out gallons of frothy ….stuff. It was foam, not bubbles, and I had never known a tree to act that way, but I was in a hurry, so I jumped into my car, then called Ken to check it out for himself, then forgot about it until late that night.
Lightning was crackling around my head (I have to admit I love dramatic weather, especially the year’s first thunderstorm) and rain slicked the street—not that it slowed the Indy 500 drivers any—but I donned my new $1.50 from the Resale Habitat for Humanity Store rain gear and tromped across the street. Sure enough, at the base of the weeping tree was a puddle of foam. It was too good to keep to myself, so I raced back across, dodging bolts, and pleaded with my family to come be witness.
Ken demurred—he’s not easily impressed, but Alex was intrigued. Shortly, he and I stood and admired. Being of an inquisitive mind, he tried to trace the line, like a line of ants, into the upper reaches, but the source was lost in the dark and rain, though we could tell it came from pretty high. Inspired, before I really thought, I reached out and touched a patch, brought it to my nose, couldn’t detect a scent, so licked my hand.
“Mother, what are you thinking!” Alex demanded, his voice covering two octaves, but ending in a decided scold. “That could be poisonous.”
I spat and spat—it hadn’t tasted like anything either, but it had the effect, I thought, of hydrogen peroxide—producing more and more spit the more one tries to rid one’s mouth of it. Then I got really scared. But I couldn’t imagine calling the poison center and telling them that I, a full grown woman, had just licked suds off a tree…..and nothing tangible was happening to me, but I thought I had better call because my son was scolding me for setting a bad example. I felt that I was just an investigative scientist—using whatever tools I had at hand or mouth to diagnose the problem. Like when some scientist or another drank a cup of radioactive something or other to prove—oops! Now I remember, he promptly died.
Maybe a better analogy is when Thompson the Younger (Ed) ate all that deer sausage which had come straight out of the CWD hotspot as a campaign stunt. He didn’t die, but people have noticed that HE sometimes foams at the mouth. So, I’m waiting for the arborist to come on WPR so I can be the first to call up and announce the existence of the wonderful foaming tree. I hope it’s raining on that day though, because when it’s not, there’s narry a trace of foam there. And it would be altogether better if the suds began to shape itself into some iconic shape—like maybe the face of Jesus or something. We could have our own local Lourdes. People could pray while they waited at the bus stop (instead of just praying that they won’t be hit in the crosswalk like now). We could maybe intreat the spirit tree to heal our state financial fiscal woes. Maybe the tree would cure warts, or start spurting gold coins, or sing lullabies.
If it starts to happen, I’m here, waiting, videocam in hand.
-Gay Davidson-Zielske
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