July

2, 2015 Stafford Studies

Linda K. Hoard
Being a part of the Stafford Studies class this week has given me pause to appreciate anew William
Stafford poems and hear from his son Kim many stories behind the poems. Having lived in Lake
Oswego for 17 years Ive loved not only William Stafford poems but also the special places in Lake
Oswego, which share them such as the William Stafford Stones at Foothills Park. I also love the
celebration of cherry trees that bloom every spring along Country Club Road. I learned from Kim
Stafford that it was his brother Bret who organized a big group of high school students to plant
these trees in 1964. I wrote a poem about these trees. Also, with Kims permission, I include an
excerpt from Kim Staffords book, 100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do, concerning these trees.
when my brother volunteered to be the Junior Class Extra Projects Committee Chairman
he went the distancehe had the local nursery donate a hundred flowering cherry trees,
the Country Club give permission to plant them in a mile-long row north of the golf course,
and three hundred students promise to bring shovels and gloves and squander a beautiful
spring Saturday to make the world a better place

Years later, after he was gone, I was driving with my daughter Rosie along Country
Club Road on a Saturday morning in April. She was eight, and Brets trees were on fire with
blossoms, spilling soft light where they billowed in their long, winding line.

Dad, Rosie said, did the world ever thank Uncle Bret for those trees?

No, I said. I dont think the world really did.

Thanking Uncle Bret

Each April tall cherry trees shout spikes of coral pink blossoms,
arch out in a half-canopy over Country Club Road in Lake Oswego,
showering petals on Land Rovers and Prius hybrids as they slow
for the 5-way free for- all before driving down A Avenue
to Portland, or West Linn or Foothills Park where William Staffords words
speak from stones above the Willamette River.

His son Bret Stafford and 300 high school kids blistered hands on shovels,
cradled one hundred heavy root balls into the dirt, watered, waited,
celebrated the skinny first sprigs of spring.
Fifty Aprils and these trees still crowd shoulder to shoulder,
parade spectators lining the street. Golfers swing behind the flaming row.
In the water hazard a white stone swan feigns a swim.

Salmon blossoms rush through blooming. Petals,

butterflies wing out into traffic, catch on windshields.
Even the peach-hued ones slip off to be wind.
A good spring rain shames them still from such fluttering.

By late April bruised carnation wings clutter Country Club Road,
drift on the sidewalk. In summer leaves turn into maroon sails.
Autumn stems twist free of growth-scarred bark.
Winter branches offer empty sticks to grey sky.

Then another spring. Cherry flowers puff with life, spill over
roadway and us as we change lanes, slowing as we near our stop.
Floating petals fly, alive still. We glimpse tremulous pink thoughts.

Photograph of Bret Stafford by William Stafford, ca. 1965