I went out seeking Rose hips to make some tea, but found them too green to be of use. I marked well the spot in my mind; where a wild bush pushes up thorough the remains of may-apples.
Thwarted in my purpose, I turned down an overgrown tract that twisted through the underbrush, leading to a skeletal bird of steel with his nose cabled to a shaft run deep into the bowels of the earth, an old oil well, the black crud leaking like curdled blood from the well head.
There was no power source attached, it was no-longer in use. I gave it a wide berth and moved on. Farther along the path, the trees shouldered in, and cut off the light, and I lost the path amid the stones, and tangled roots.
I knew that a well-used path lay up ahead to the right, where it cut across the hillside, so I moved in that direction, remembering as I did, that I had seen some Sassafras on the hillside growing. I haven’t had Sassafras since I was a kid, and since I was thwarted in my rose hip search, I made for the Sassafras. The leaf looks like an alien three-fingered hand, and the odor of the tree is quite sweet and distinctive.
When I was a youngster, my Paternal Grandmother would make Tea out of the root, I remember that well, the way it filled the house. Sassafras root beer was also available at the store, but no more. The FDA has banned it’s sale because of it’s carcinogenic nature. (Wikipedia has a small article on this) The oil contains Safrole which is used in the manufacture of MDMA (ecstasy drug).
So the humble Sassafras tree is not as innocent as it seems. I did dig up the root of one small sapling, and took it home. But I don’t plan to do more than smell that memorial scent, and let it take me back along the path of years.
-Ezra Hilyer
