On Language: A tree grows and grows and grows in Old Mission (A meditation)

My allusion is to the title of Betty Smith’s classic novel “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,” my home town. But my tree is a huge white oak in my backyard near where my property is heavily treed. Years ago, we decided to do some timbering, and I recall the head of the crew that came out gazing at that oak, almost drooling.

“Don’t even think about it,” I said.