When I first got married I desperately wanted a garden. And trees, lots of trees. After much hand-wringing, I decided on a honey locust next to our home. I was eight months pregnant and decided to plant it myself. So I dug the hole and started planting the four-foot sapling. One of my retired neighbors, alerted to the danger of a pregnant woman doing manual work, stopped by to chastise me. I got up, stretched and told him I was fine. The tree's little leaves seemed to flutter with thanks when I mulched and watered her.
The next day, I went into labor. Early. Mr. Olsen was right, it did help me go into labor.
Our tree grew fast, almost too fast, because when it rained heavily, she bent over so far I thought she would break. So in a heavy shower, I went outside to hold her up. After a few months, she rewarded us with filtered light, cooled the plants under her boughs and gave my family much pleasure. Not to mention the birds and squirrels she sheltered.
