Under Grumpa's Hat

Trees have a funny way of inserting themselves into our lives without ever asking permission. They stand there while childhood unfolds around them. We climb them, scrape our knees on them, hide behind them, and later seek their shade when life gets heavy. Many of us remember a tree before we remember a room. My grandparents had four large maple trees in their front yard, the kind that hosted entire summers of climbing, quiet conversations, and autumns painted in red, orange and gold. Years later, planting a tree of your own and watching it grow feels less like gardening and more like time travel.

Trees ground us. Not just environmentally, though they do that admirably, but emotionally. They outlive our phases, our moods, our bad ideas. They remind us that growth takes time and that standing still can still mean progress.

Somewhere between the beach selfies, the zip lines, and the cocktail with the little umbrella, Costa Rica hides its real muscle. It does not roar, does not flap, and does not pose for tourists unless accidentally. It simply stands there. Wide. Calm. Unbothered.

Meet the Guanacaste tree

If Costa Rica were a family, the Guanacaste would be the uncle who never says much, never asks for credit, but somehow owns the biggest shade, the coldest drinks, and the calmest presence at the table. There is a reason it was named the national tree, and it has very little to do with paperwork and everything to do with how it lives among people.

The Guanacaste tree, known scientifically as Enterolobium cyclocarpum, is not subtle. It grows big. Proper big. The kind of big that makes you instinctively look up, squint, and say something intelligent like, “Well… that’s a tree.” Its canopy spreads like an open umbrella left behind by a thoughtful giant, offering shade that feels less like relief and more like mercy.

In Guanacaste province, and far beyond it, locals have relied on this tree for generations. Long before air conditioning and cold beer were reliable options, the Guanacaste was the original cooling system. Farmers rested beneath it. Cattle clustered under it. Entire conversations, naps, and life decisions unfolded under its branches. If walls could talk, Guanacaste trees would politely decline and keep everyone’s secrets.

Its nickname, the elephant ear tree or monkey ear tree, comes from its seed pods, which curve like oversized ears dangling from the branches. Children notice. Monkeys notice. Adults pretend not to notice, then step on one and trip anyway. Nature has a sense of humour, it just delivers it quietly.

What the tree means to locals is less poetic than it sounds, and more meaningful because of it. The Guanacaste is practical. It cools the land, lowers ground temperatures, and improves air quality simply by existing and breathing the way trees do best. Its broad canopy slows evaporation, protects soil, and offers shelter in a climate where the sun does not mess around.

During the dry season, when the landscape turns dusty and patience runs thin, the Guanacaste remains a landmark of stability. It loses its leaves, yes, but never its presence. It reminds people that seasons pass, that green returns, and that standing still can be a productive act.

Historically, the tree also played a role in ranching life. Its shade protected livestock. Its pods fed animals. Its wood, though not always ideal for fine furniture, served practical needs when required. Nothing was wasted, and nothing was taken lightly. That relationship still echoes today in rural areas, where the tree is respected more than admired, which might be the highest compliment.

When Costa Rica named the Guanacaste its national tree in 1959, it was not just about biology. It was about identity. The tree became a living tribute to the province of Guanacaste and to the spirit of annexation and unity that defines that region’s history. In a country that values peace, protection, and quiet resilience, the choice made perfect sense.

Unlike flashier national symbols, the Guanacaste does not demand attention. Costa Rica does have others, of course. The guaria morada blooms dramatically as the national flower. The yigüirro sings its way into the role of national bird. There are flags, mottos, and emblems that do their part. But the Guanacaste simply holds the ground beneath them all.

Today, the tree still matters. Urban planners protect it. Roads bend around it. Homes are built with it in mind, not against it. In a world that clears first and regrets later, the Guanacaste often gets the courtesy of being asked to stay.

And it usually does.

There is something deeply Costa Rican about that. The idea that strength does not have to shout. That usefulness can be noble. That providing shade, shelter, and cleaner air is a worthy legacy. The Guanacaste does not rush. It does not trend. It does not care how many people post photos of it.

It just keeps standing there, reminding locals and visitors alike that the best parts of a place are often the ones quietly holding everything together.

If you ever find yourself under one, sweating less, breathing easier, and wondering why life feels momentarily calmer, do not overthink it. That is not magic. That is a tree doing exactly what it has always done.

And doing it very well.

If you haven’t do so yet, I encourage you to read The Story of the Tree, something my father taught me a long time ago.