July 2, 2015 Stafford Studies Linda K. Hoard Being a part of the Stafford Studies class this week has given me pause to appreciate anew William Stafford poems and hear from his son Kim many stories behind the poems. Having lived in Lake Oswego for 17 years I’ve loved not only William Stafford poems but also the special places in Lake Oswego, which share them such as the William Stafford Stones at Foothills Park. I also love the celebration of cherry trees that bloom every spring along Country Club Road. I learned from Kim Stafford that it was his brother Bret who organized a big group of high school students to plant these trees in 1964. I wrote a poem about these trees. Also, with Kim’s permission, I include an excerpt from Kim Stafford’s book, 100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do, concerning these trees. “…when my brother volunteered to be the Junior Class Extra Projects Committee Chairman – he went the distance…he had the local nursery donate a hundred flowering cherry trees, the Country Club give permission to plant them in a milelong row north of the golf course, and three hundred students promise to bring shovels and gloves and squander a beautiful spring Saturday to make the world a better place… Years later, after he was gone, I was driving with my daughter Rosie along Country Club Road on a Saturday morning in April. She was eight, and Bret’s trees were on fire with blossoms, spilling soft light where they billowed in their long, winding line. ‘Dad,’ Rosie said, ‘did the world ever thank Uncle Bret for those trees?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think the world really did.’” Thanking Uncle Bret Each April tall cherry trees shout spikes of coral pink blossoms, arch out in a halfcanopy over Country Club Road in Lake Oswego, showering petals on Land Rovers and Prius hybrids as they slow for the 5way free –for all before driving down A Avenue to Portland, or West Linn or Foothills Park where William Stafford’s words speak from stones above the Willamette River. His son Bret Stafford and 300 high school kids blistered hands on shovels, cradled one hundred heavy root balls into the dirt, watered, waited, celebrated the skinny first sprigs of spring. Fifty Aprils and these trees still crowd shoulder to shoulder, parade spectators lining the street. Golfers swing behind the flaming row. In the water hazard a white stone swan feigns a swim.