I don’t even care how ridiculous it is to blog about a tree. I am delighted by it. I went out last night to just watch the breeze pass over the leaves, to feel the trunk, and to just enjoy it. We’re wondering, exactly, how much to water it. They recommend you water a new tree pretty frequently, and the Butcher got everything wet as he was putting the tree in the ground.
But then we stood there and wondered, should we water it some more, even with as wet as the ground is? I mean, it’s a bog in our front yard. Shouldn’t osmosis keep that tree good and watered? I think I’m going to keep the top wet but not soak it or anything.
I don’t know.
Anyway, I was reminded, last night, watching the leaves get used to the wind in the front yard, of that marvelous conceit in The Magician’s Nephew that the tree from Narnia that stood in London would wave in Narnian breezes, even though in our world.
I haven’t thought about that in a long time.
Tiny Cat Pants 
Have I ever told you about the miraculous C.S. Lewis letter I once learned of? I’m sure that’s never come up in any conversation you’ve ever had with anyone.
We have two trees that we put in last year at a very significant time so I have a special attachment to those…so I say blog away about the new tree. Unless you encounter any more haunted tour bus or anything else stories and then I must insist you drop everything for those.
Seriously, have you ever heard about that letter? :)
I met anything else haunted stories not anything else period.
In the future I promise to save all comments until after I’ve finished my vat of coffee.
The folks we bought the house from planted a dogwood in the front yard that died, and I put a cherry tree in the same spot. I have babied that tree more than anything else, but I haven’t named her. Maybe I should She’s decidedly feminine, but stoic, usually later to bloom than the other cherries in the neighborhood, but then her flowers last longer. I might have to name her Betsy, if you don’t mind. Seems fitting. She and Henry can make out.
Oh, god, the letter. I think I’ve bored a few people here with the tales of its magical journey around the classroom (long story short, we had a professor in college who had a letter CS Lewis wrote [or maybe a copy of a letter] and he would regularly pass it around the classroom for us to marvel at).
Jag, I would be so honored if your tree were Betsy. And if she would make out with Henry.