Yesterday, beginning the turn into our driveway, I stopped. Our front yard birch tree, its leaves shimmering in the light breeze, captured my attention. I usually take its beauty for granted, but this time I needed to pause to appreciate its splendor.

We planted the cluster birch with its four strong trunks six years ago. I haven’t named the tree, but he surely is a member of the family now. How did he get that big? And fully symmetrical? And luxuriously leafed out? He is now 10-15 feet taller than our roof peak and about 30 feet wide. I shouldn’t be proud of this handsome tree – after all, he did all the growing. But I am.

I realized that I hadn’t paid him much attention in the past few years except for bottom pruning. Each year, as his lower branches spread out further, sagging under their weight, they invade our mowing space. Dear Richard loves his ride-on mower, but struggles in his attempts to cut under the birch.

Since the welfare of our flowers and trees falls under my job description, I am the delinquent pruner. Last week, I had to promise that this year’s second pruning is in the offing. Soon. Yes, dear, I will. Before your next mowing. Hopefully.

After parking the car, I walked around the birch, assessing his size and health. I realized how happy this tree makes me. Our neighborhood walkers probably wondered about the lady standing in her yard, grinning up at her humongous birch tree.

Later, sitting on the back deck overlooking our yard and gardens, I took stock of the tree inventory during the 17 years I’ve lived here. I was surprised – at the changes, at the beauty, at the investment! Actually, I can think of very few goodies that deliver more contentment, more bang for the buck, than a beautiful tree.

We had to take down three huge cherry trees three years ago. It was heartbreaking. But in their old age of almost a hundred years, they were dropping large branches too close to the house. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to their not being our backyard sentries. When they went, they took the grandchildren’s swing with them, all those memories of squeals and laughter.

But thankfully, there were benefits. The trees continually dropped a mess on our deck: Flowers, stems, and leaves plus their harvest of pathetic cherries. The fruit was suitable only as chipmunk and squirrel fodder. After those rodents made pigs of themselves, they left a couple weeks of cherry purple poop on the deck, the railing, and the furniture. I don’t miss the mess.

As hard as it was to say goodbye to the 80-foot cherry trees, it wasn’t difficult to bid adieu to one of my early planting mistakes.

That lovely variegated willow looked so pretty at the nursery. Its green and white leaves grew quickly, filling the corner with light against the dark lilac. Did I know that willow trees grew on steroids? Not 16 years ago. It continued to flourish, maniacally fast, until it obliterated the lilac, crowded out the Rose of Sharon, and hung heavy into the neighbor’s yard. I finally executed it this spring.

The opposite of an exploding willow is the quiet little Alberta spruce tree. They are slow growers, usually only two to four inches a year. After my mother, Alberta, moved here, at age 81, we planted a front yard garden at her new house. Her favorite choice of the plantings was a small

Alberta spruce against the garden’s brick wall. It actually helped her feel more welcome, more comfortable. Every Spring she fondly commented on its growth, its happiness in its habitat.

After Mom passed, I planted her tree namesake – a new one – in my back garden. It has sprouted only a foot in four years. It’s not going to crowd out anything, it’s just adding a strong, tranquil presence among the colorful flowers. I can be patient. There’s beauty in solidity.

The last tree we added is our last tree.

In memory of those three cherry monsters, I recently planted a small Japanese cherry tree near their old home. I plan to keep it fairly small, pruning it to an umbrella shape.

I enjoy sitting on the deck, drinking in the flowers and enjoying the magnificence of the trees. As we all grow older together, I’m going to relish their presence, their strength, their shade. Trees are such a gift. They bring me joy, especially when I’m sipping a gin and tonic on a hot late afternoon!

By the way, you did know that gin is derived from juniper trees – yes? I rest my case.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com