I came across a plague in Ashlandia’s railroad district. The plaque identified the tree beside it as a slippery elm and announced that it had been the tree of the year.

The tree of the year is an annual tradition in our city. Stepping back, I admired its height and thick, expanding branches. Sunlight backlit them against blue sky.

I didn’t have a camera with me — yep, not even a phone — so I don’t have a photo of the plaque nor tree. I ran a search for a photo of it but nada emerged. I need to return to the scene with my phone, I guess.

Forty-seven years had passed since the tree had been honored. It still looked like it could be the tree of the year.