think the children rather than the planter will enjoy it" wrote a correspondent about a Judas tree he had transplanted from one site to his present residence in Gorey. It's a common enough thought among planters of trees. And yet, it needn't be so. Examples come to mind of oaks, grown from the acorn, which, in less than twenty years have reached thirty and more feet. Of Scots pines, from a nursery which are of similar height, though starting out with a few years advantage. Of ash which have run away with themselves from three feet whips. Of birch in a favourable, sunny and slightly damp corner which are reaching to the sky. Of giant alders which seem to have come from nowhere.
Of course, all these have the advantage of growing near to a river where mist hangs around in summer, though offset by frost in winter.
Still, your tree is a hardy thing. Give it a chance.
And did you hear last week a lovely thought for Today on RTE 1. The speaker was telling of a friend, Old John, who cared especially, it seems, for acorns and oaks.
He gathered the acorns in autumn and kept them through the winter in cartons and pots with damp moss. Some indoors, some outdoors. Old John, said the speaker, thought that his closeness to the former helped them on their way.
Just now, we were told, all were germinating, and their white roots twining through the moss, seeking earth to anchor in.
He went on to describe oaks in their growth harbouring insects galore which, in turn, make food for birds. And then squirrels and other animals will benefit, too. Old John, it was said, compared the big oaks to hotels, throbbing with life. The opening line of the talk, barely heard, seemed to be "and in my hand a forest lies asleep". A poet's line. A true line.
In the acorns you casually gathered a few months ago, you too have a forest lying asleep. And it won't take a hundred years for it to produce its own acorns. Maybe less than twenty.