Ode to the Catalpa Tree

A bit of earth and a childhood dream.

On my high school campus, there was a beautiful young tree that bloomed in the springtime. Her flowers resembled orchids: white, with delicate yellow and purple markings. Smitten, I asked around, looked her up, found her name.

Catalpa.

Someday, I decided, I’d have a catalpa tree of my own, dripping with ethereal flowers.

Flowers! I’ve always loved them. And earthworms too. As a child, I loved to (sometimes) help my mom in the garden. I collected the plastic tabs that came in every plant pot, each with the flower’s mugshot and name. I kept them in a little box and flipped through them sometimes, preparing for the season, reading their stats — perennial, annual, full sun.

Photo of myself. Photo of my soul.

In the summers, I helped harvest cherries from our front yard and stone fruit from the back. My parents, my sister, and I would bring out the tallest ladder and take turns holding and climbing. Picking and collecting. We had a fruit picker, too, which looked a bit like a metal lacrosse stick. We harvested blackberries from our neighbor’s bush, which generously spilled into our yard. We snipped basil for my favorite of my mom’s recipes, pesto pasta.

Palm Springs, 2023 — I’ll never pass up an opportunity to get lemons. Or free produce. Or use a fruit picker.

We hung CDs in the trees to distract the birds from eating our sweet summer fruit. We killed slugs by setting out small plastic tubs of Pabst Blue Ribbon; they’d drown in pools of cheap beer. The opossums, who sometimes crawled on the roof, my dad scared away with a shout and a watering hose. Years later, when wild turkeys infiltrated the town and destroyed everyone’s gardens, my mom proclaimed, “Everyone in this family must establish dominance.” So, when the turkeys appeared, we ran out front and stood our ground until the herd moved on, taking up the whole street like the hoodlums they were.

I remember one year, we planted roses. My sister chose yellow, my mom chose pink, and I chose a pink and yellow combo variety. Each petal started yellow at the bottom and turned pink at the top. They took a few years to be as beautiful as the photographs on their plastic tabs. Now, two plus decades later, they still bloom. They show off, outside the living room windows and in vases my mom arranges. Flowers!

Roses in my parents’ backyard.

I moved to LA the summer I turned 22, and over the next decade, I lived in three apartments around the city. Always on the second floor. I was lucky to always have a balcony where I could grow succulents and feed hummingbirds. But still, I yearned for a bit of earth, like Mary Lennox asks for in every version of The Secret Garden — the book, the movies, and my favorite, the musical.

February 17, 2021. An incredible day in history! A completely full hummingbird feeder on the balcony of my Los Feliz apartment!

Last summer, Josh and I visited open houses with concrete yards and rooftop gardens, but we wanted trees, flowers, and vegetables. We wanted earth — not in pots, but in the ground. We are good at manifesting together — making a list, checking it twice. “Bit of earth” was non-negotiable, along with /his and hers/ sinks, no carpet, and most importantly, no rats.

We found our house and our bit of earth and moved in late August. I still pinch myself.

The cactus out front blooms huge white flowers that open only overnight. Each bloom eventually turns brown, and then you can stick out your fingers and - flick! - it snaps off the cactus and tumbles to the ground.

She blooms in the dark.

There’s a lemon tree in the backyard, and two trees we planted that aren’t bearing fruit yet: avocado and nectarine. In the fall, the huge pecan tree drops nuts, and the squirrels eat them like corn on the cob. In the winter, the tree loses all its leaves. In the spring, it fills out again, and multiple birds build their nests, and the tree drops a bunch of detritus I can only describe as caterpillar-like. Our neighbors’ flowering bushes tumble generously over the fences into our yard: pink bougainvillea, pink hibiscus, white hibiscus, yellow angel’s trumpets— which are poisonous, but who’s eating them? A neighbor’s apple tree stretches one fruit-laden branch out to greet us.

This first spring with my own garden was busy. I’d waited my whole life for this. We planted our own bougainvillea, echoing our neighbors’. Hibiscus that’s pink on the inside and yellow on the outside, as well as vincas, lantana, jasmine, jessamine, rio, and daisies. There have been so many blooms, even on the succulents I didn’t know were capable of quite that level of beauty.

This weekend, Josh and I took a walk, and as usual, oohed and ahhed at the absolute beauty of our city, both natural and cultivated. There are ugly things, too. Litter, dog poop, ICE. But the flowers! We love yellow bell trees. The jacarandas are wild this year — blooming purple on every street. We wonder how it took us so long — 11 years for me, many more for him as an LA native — to simply notice. Were they always this purple, this stunning and alien? We talk about planting one, someday, close to the sidewalk. Doing our part to tree-line our street .

Jacaranda trees. May we never not notice them.

Then I spotted a familiar shape. My old love, the catalpa.

“Someday, I’ll have a catalpa,” I’d promised myself almost half my life ago. I always remembered its name.

The catalpa tree was a symbol of the future, of “making it.” Success, defined as having such beauty at close proximity.

But on this walk, I realized — I don’t need a catalpa anymore. We have a flowering tree of our own in our front yard. A desert tree, Palo Verde, with a green trunk and branches, intricate leaf patterns, and yellow flowers. I’m in awe of this tree. I love her so much. I pinch myself, still. I have my dream come true, my bit of earth, my flowering tree, my flowers, even my weeds. Catalpa, she is pretty, but she isn’t mine.

Our very own Palo Verde. A blessing. A star.

Yesterday morning, I walked out front and noticed a tree blooming extravagantly. I raced across the street to look closer. White flowers with purple and yellow markings so vibrant the whole petals seem to be tinted pink.

A catalpa tree.

Directly across the street from my house. Right there for me to stare at, visit, admire.

Okay, fine. I love her.

Okay, fine. Let’s say it’s true.

I’ve made it.

“My” catalpa tree, courtesy of my across the street neighbors.