Die Maple Trees, Die

I stared at that maple tree for a half hour, and it wouldn’t even look me in the eye. It couldn’t bear to. There’s something foolish about maple trees, something shameful. They know it, and they don’t think you do. Take a look at that jerk up there. While oak trees simply channel their inner Hetfield and fade to brown, maple trees blush at the first hint of adversity. Throw an unseasonably cool September at an oak tree and it just ignores it. Let a fancy maple taste a bit of cool fall air and it throws up its red and orange surrender flag without provocation. In a world filled with danger, maple trees are surely the french of the deciduous world. I have no doubt that Carla Bruni loves them.

Maple trees don’t care much for summer. They sit around and sway in the breeze, pretending to be enjoying themselves. They’re liars. They don’t like summer. They won’t even acknowledge August. But envelope them in a few fifty degree nights and they rush to judgment, assuming fall has arrived and everyone wants to see their flamboyant colors. In that, Maple trees are prima donnas. Provide them the slightest opportunity to abandon any hope of a prolonged summer and they’ll turn their green to orange faster than you can say autumnal equinox. I once had a creep call me a pansy. I can only imagine the horrible things he calls maple trees.

Maple trees should be ashamed of themselves. That tree in that photo up there should be embarrassed by its premature display, but instead, it’s probably proud to flaunt such ridiculous leaves. So proud to show off colors that proclaim the end of our summer. So immature and petty. Paul Simon probably hates maple trees too. He has no time for them. He gives it to us straight about leaves, and he certainly doesn’t talk about red ones. No he most certainly does not. He loves oak trees. Probably because they’re not show offs, and they’re steadfast. Like an old friend that you don’t talk to all the time but you know he’s always good for a lunch, particularly if you’re buying. Paul Simon knows that leaves should turn from green to brown. Get it maple tree? Turn from green to brown. Throwing pebbles in a brook? Check. Leaves turning from green to red and then brown? Get a life, maple trees. If I want yellow in my yard on the 20th of September, I’ll buy a mum.

And don’t bother writing. You’d probably write with some form of annoying letter head with reds and yellows and the oranges in between. You remind me more of John Daley’s new pants than of a symbol of strength and vitality. While most of us cling to the hope that some days of summer remain, you’re in such a hurry to take over and dazzle us with your obnoxious colors. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay green. I once had another creep tell me that I was going to “find out who he really was”. Really? Well I know who you are, maple trees, and if you don’t stay green for a while longer, you’re going to find out who I really am. Who am I? I’m a fat kid with a computer, but that’s not the point.

The point is, maple trees, you’re bothering me. I’ll rejoice in your beauty soon enough, but for goodness sake, have a little self respect. Did your mother not love you, maple tree? Your oranges and yellows and reds will be appreciated in another couple weeks, but for now, your display only signals that end of a summer that I loved far more than I can ever love you. For now, maple trees, leave me alone. I’ll see you in 10 days when I enthusiastically embrace another Lake Geneva fall. For now, stay out of my way or I’ll crumble your red leaves in my hand in much the same way that Mr. Simon crumbles the brown ones in his. Shagbark Hickories- you and your squirrel friends that work in concert to sling nuts at the roof and hood of my car- I hate you too.