A Dusty Tires Short Story

By Dusty Tires

It was a struggle. It had taken all the effort it could muster to push upward from under the ground, and still it was not enough. Strife! “Patience must be learned,” it heard whispered from somewhere.

Still, with each new sense of moisture nearby, and with each feeling of warmth from above, the urgency to strive upward returned. Rest was out of the question. It struggled on without ceasing.

Finally, there was a breakthrough, and light! Light so bright it hurt, and actual heat. It was amazing. Now more water flowed. Strength flowed from the water, from the light, from the very air itself. Pressing forward became easier. It became a way of life.

Looking down, everything was green. Shoots of green erupted from the rocky, stubbly earth, and it was greener all around. Further away was a riot of colors — red, yellow, purple, and more, while overhead was a blanket of azure.

Blue-sky days turned to angry storms and winds that tore at the tender green even as it grew always taller and stronger. At night, rest came along with the pale companionship of the moon and stars. Patience was remembered, but life was strong and good.

Weeks, then months, then entire seasons passed. Green turned stout and brown, with more growth branching out all over. Now others like itself could be clearly seen rising victoriously from the earth below. 

Surely this was the reward for patience! Then winter came with its deathly cold. Deep sleep was the only remedy to survive the white, icy freeze. Spring came with its warming breezes and rejuvenation, then riotous summer and golden autumn. 

Seasons turned to years. Insects and small animals ate of its growth and rested in its arms. It welcomed the small intrusions in the cycle of life. So, this was the reason patience was needed!

Years stretched long. Other tall ones were struck by lightning or suddenly fell with a crash. Men with noisy machines came among them, marked and took some away, cutting them up with sharp blades.

Now its loftiness stretched upwards for hundreds of feet. It scarcely grew at all now. Its roots were plunged deep into the earth. Occasionally a large branch died, broke off and fell but it was of no great consequence. Patience had been learned. Decades had passed.

People began walking around it, pointing at it. Their speech was unintelligible, but it was not really interested in them anyway. The sun, the rain, the sky, and the earth were all that mattered.

One morning a length of red tape fluttered from around it. There was no need to be concerned. Weeks went by, then people with big machines returned. Machines began tearing into its girth; twisting and turning, it fought against this monstrous interruption.

But with a sigh, it relented and fell with a mighty crash, helplessly allowing itself to be sliced into lengths with sharp blades.

The logging supervisor ran his gloved hand over the tree’s growth rings, turned to one of the loggers and commented, “This tree is a real great-grandfather, probably at least 200 years old. A fine specimen. Thousands of board-feet of lumber here.”

As its life ebbed away, the tree finally understood. The fallen elder sadly viewed a young, green shoot pressing upward next to where it lay.

“Patience must be learned,” it whispered to the youngster, who barely heard the old tree’s final words and kept pressing eagerly toward the light above.

Weeks passed, then months. An older man stood with a boy in a workshop that smelled of sawdust, tobacco and linseed oil. They both looked at the boards of fine-grained oak lumber that they would together be crafting into a rocking chair. 

“Grandpa, what’s the most important thing to remember in woodworking?” the boy asked.

The old man smiled at the boy and ran a gnarled hand appreciatively over one of the boards. “Patience,” he said.

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