A small tree can have deep roots.

Upon moving to Woodstock, I was made aware of the various quirks that I would encounter; many of which were negative, such as the bergies frequenting your front door with large thuds followed by a bellowing call, stealing of all branded symbols on your car and the absolute intrigue of your life to your neighbors. All of which are very much real… but it’s when you start to answer the loud thud and learn that the bellow is only an introduction to a man named Gary. With his 2,5 liters of brown liquor, pack of 3 cigarettes and a packed lunch, he is a man who has played a huge role in how I view things - especially pertaining to the ultimate story of a Silver Tree Fern named Stanley. Over two months, I was able to get to know Gary as his home was on my front stoep. I was introduced to several of his friends and even given the gospel of John to read in order for us to discuss together.
With a true relationship forming with him, and a desire to create a welcoming home, I decided to bring Stanley The Silver tree Fern to my front stoep: essentially to Gary’s room. And we grew attached over the three days that Stanley survived.
I had just got home from work when I began my routine of greeting the self-appointed neighborhood watch lady on the corner, the somewhat creepy-far-too-smooth man up the road, Gary and then Stan… he was gone!
Someone had stolen Stanley.
Although saddening, I decided to make light of the moment and designed a Wanted Poster, including a mug-sketch of Stanley: “To whoever stole our pot plant: That is just lame and mean, please bring him back.” I then placed it on my front door, posted it on Facebook, made a cup of tea and carried on with my life. It was over in my mind until I started getting an incredible response on Facebook with comments such as, “Oh despair, my thoughts are with you”. Gary even delivered an old plastic rose he found at the local rubbish dump in compensation.
But it was at approximately 10:30 the next morning when two very serious bergies, Oom Bertie and Pinkie, arrived at my front door and tentatively broached the topic of Stanley. They informed me that they most certainly did not steal Stanley, but they had appointed themselves as chief detectives on the case. It was in this moment that I fell in love with Woodstock. A few days later, I was informed of the finality of the loss of our fern. This story will forever remain in my heart as the one that allowed me to truly appreciate Woodstock, and its quirks - including my own.