White Birch Bracelet

Two Crazy Kids
Riding Birch Trees
Had No Idea Robert Frost Did the Same

1965- my best friend ever, Lee and I were in the woods down by the railroad tracks one afternoon where the tracks cut through solid rock creating steep cliffs on either side. On top of the south cliff, was a grove of White Birches- thin, straight, tall, bordering a farmer‘s field. We often hung out by the tracks because there was a lot to do there.

One day in early fall, Lee climbed one of the birch trees to see how far he could see. He kept going and going up until I heard him yell and the top of the tree was bending down with him holding on. He was headed to the ground fast, head first. Lee let go of the tree with his legs while still holding on with his hands. His feet swung down. The tree slowed and he gently touched the ground. Lee let go of the tree and it whipped back up.

I said, “Cool. Do it again!” Neither of us had ever seen or heard of such a thing. We went through the grove trying tree after tree. It was great fun, a fabulous country sport. It was like flying. We rode the trees, again and again, quickly learning each tree with a number of rides lost its spring. There must have been 50 trees of exactly the right size. It took us a week to get through the groove of 50. None of our friends in school had ever heard of such a thing, they thought we were crazy.

I’d never heard anyone tell of riding birches until I came across this poem by Robert Frost:

Birches by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust-
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

What We and Frost Learned

Frost talks about the trees losing their stiffness. He had learned the same thing we did, through experience. Lee lived closer to the railroad tracks than I did. He had gone back to ride the birches before I got back a week later. He reported that he had worn the trees out; after so many times they had lost their spring. We had to hike further out to find new birch trees.

As an adult, I see the sacred beauty of birches like everyone else. Every once in a while though, I see a grove of tall thin 35-foot trees, and like Frost, think about riding the birch trees again.

Robert Frost
Born March 26, 1874, San Francisco, California – died January 29, 1963, Boston, Massachusetts. American poet who was much admired for his depictions of the rural life of New England.

Sterling Silver

The bracelet is white, silver white, made of birch leaves linked perfectly together. The bracelet flexes naturally, and beautifully and has a box clasp with safety-8 that when closed allows a continuous flow of leaves around the wrist. It’s a handsome bracelet. The necklace and earrings look pretty good, too.

The Most Trusted Jewelry Maker in America

I know the shop that makes this bracelet. The bracelet is magnificently engineered. I know the guy who designed this bracelet and oversees its making. He is a good friend and my most trusted person in the jewelry business. His word is as good as gold even though he makes this bracelet in sterling silver. Great design and solid engineering. You can’t see the superlative engineering at a glance, you’ll know it, though, 20 and 30 years later.

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