The Cedars That Held Me

Behind Floyd and Deena Nelson’s farmhouse grew a stand of ancient cedar trees — gnarled, knotted, and shaped by wind and weather into natural forts. If the house was a place of grown-up conversation and coffee, the cedars were a place built entirely for me.

I’d climb into their twisting arms, wedging myself into little pockets of wood that felt like seats carved by time. The branches weren’t straight; they spiraled, bulged, looped around each other in ways that felt more alive than anything else in my world. They made little chambers where I could hide, listen, imagine.

These trees weren’t just trees. They were story engines.

In their knots I saw castles.
In their roots, dungeons.
In their bows, lookout towers.
In their shadows, the suggestion of whole unseen worlds.

While Mom and Deena sat on the porch talking — hours of talk that I now realize probably sustained them both — I’d disappear into the cedars and play out fantasies of spies, explorers, and starship captains.

The trees never judged.
Never hurried me.
Never told me to come inside.
They simply held me.

Even now, decades later, when I’m deep into my own myth-making, I can trace the root system back to those cedars — those patient, twisted, magnificent guardians of my early imagination.