A Redwood on the Streetcar

Connie and I discovered a nursery in Northwest Portland last week at the end of NW 18th Street by the railroad tracks, about as far north as you can go in Portland before you fall into the Willamette River. Peter, who runs the nursery, is a copper-haired Belgian who works alone among hundreds of plants. He likes to talk to visitors and seems mostly unconcerned about actually selling much of anything. On our first visit, we bought three potted Begonias and two Dogwoods (small) for our 5 by 8 foot terrace. There was already a small Butterfly Japanese Maple there.

A lot of foliage for a small space, admittedly; and we also have a breakfast table and two chairs. But it’s cozy not crowded. A place of joy. We added along the front of the balcony some Mums and a couple of other flowers whose names I lost. Then we returned to see Peter: we wanted an evergreen of some sort in front of the living room window that overlooks the terrace. He showed us around on a 90-degree sunny afternoon. A freight train pulled up alongside the nursery, its engine throbbing rhythmically.

Most of the conifers we looked at were too large, the pots half the size of our terrace. Or they were too small, ornamentals we would not be able to see from the living room. Then he showed us a Redwood. Sequoia. It was about four feet in height with a dogleg left or right depending on your vantage point. It was exquisite.

“It grows to be the tallest tree in the world,” Peter said. “It’ll reach 500 feet.”

“We could angle it over the street,” I suggested.

“Cut a hole in the terraces above us,” Connie offered.

Peter said, “It will stay small if you leave it in a small pot.”

We could put a Redwood on our terrace?

We paid Peter the $29 he insisted was the price and we squeezed our Redwood into our blue shopping cart and walked it back to the streetcar and rolled it on. We got a seat. The Redwood stood.

“I’ve never seen that before,” said one man, “a tree on the streetcar.”

The tree made everyone smile, especially when we told them it was a Redwood. Then an infirm woman boarded, young but crack-addict skinny, and I offered her my seat. She smiled with teeth that went in all directions and bowed a gracious thanks. I angled the Redwood over her head, “to give you some shade.”

She smiled up at me. “Well, thank you, sir.”

The streetcar hummed along 11th Avenue past the library, the Redwood branches swaying over her head, and she looked cool in the shade of the tallest tree in the world, which now sits on our terrace in front of the living room window.