More than a decade ago, a landscape architect friend from Rhode Island, Louis Raymond, brought us a house-warming gift when we had a cottage in Menemsha. Actually we had been living there seasonally for some time and he had been there before. But he had scoped out the yard and decided it really needed a catalpa tree. So he returned bearing a three-foot sprout nestled in a soil-filled pot. Handing us the baby tree, he then made a prediction right out of the family lore of Mother Goose and the Brothers Grimm.

“Catalpas like wet feet. Menemsha Pond waters are about 18 inches below your lawn. In a few weeks of nurture you can remove this from its pot and plant it in your yard. Before you know it, in a couple of years you will have this tall shade tree with these large leaves you can fan yourself with in the heat of summer.” Thus spoke the prophet. In short order, a full-fledged tree was born, complete with light green leaves bigger than hands and long bean pods kids would use as whips or blackjacks in shoulder-season games. A tree fit for the Vineyard. We had years of enjoyment just looking at it.

Jump to 2015. I have written a play called Not Constantinople that opens the summer season of the Vineyard Playhouse. A key element in my story about the Mafia, Florida and mental instability is a catalpa. Write what you know, right? My character, a good fella in the Witness Protection Program, takes his mind off his problems by preparing a garden for the installation of a baby catalpa. You can also dig down 18 inches in Florida and strike water.

The show’s prop master calls around to the local nurseries but cannot find a catalpa, baby or otherwise. Further checking reveals that not even a plastic version can be found. What is this? The aftereffects of a harsher than harsh winter? A foggy memory tells me I used to pass a catalpa somewhere toward West Chop on dog walks a few years ago. So my wife and I toss pairs of loppers and gardening gloves into the car and drive off at five miles per hour into the whims of Plan B. We figure if we find a catalpa on someone’s property, we will ask permission for a cutting for a worthy cultural endeavor. But, after an hour of car crawling, nothing. No catalpa in sight.

Okay, so it’s time to take a cutting from the catalpa we planted in Menemsha. One little problem: it lives at the house we no longer own. My wife contacts our gracious successors (who live most of the time in Boston) and they give us the green light to trim the tree. Again with the loppers and gloves, I drive up to the old stomping ground — only to park in shock. That was some winter all right. The old catalpa appears to be wearing a multi-armed sleeveless shirt. By nature, the tree is a late bloomer, but in mid-May its bare branches merely sport little baby fingers of leaves. I sigh heavily and drive home catalpa-less.

In desperation, I call my landscaping friend in Rhode Island. Voila! Turns out he has a baby catalpa, 28 inches high in a pot, with some decent start-up foliage. Louis Raymond is not only a worldly-wise gardener, he is also a gentleman of the first order. We arrange a rendezvous. He drives 90 minutes with said baby catalpa to the Steamship Authority landing in Woods Hole to meet the 9 a.m. arrival of the boat from Vineyard Haven from which I will disembark. With synchronized texting, we meet in the SSA visitor parking area where he hands me the potted tree out of the back of his car. I’m sure to some unsuspecting soul this looked like a drug deal. After he provides me with care and feeding instructions, we bid adieu.

Gingerly, I carry the baby right onto the next ferry going back to the Island, the 9:30. Of course, this boat is not going back to Vineyard Haven where I began my journey and where I live five minutes from the SSA office. It’s going to Oak Bluffs. I forgot what date it was. But since the lightbulb popped on during the sail, I track down my wife who has the car so I won’t have to take a blustery walk to the bus. As I practically race-walk down the ferry ramp to her waiting car, the winds pick up and I helplessly watch the plant’s largest leaf fly off. I nearly smother the plant with protection as we both get into the car. An Island-style mission is concluded.

The little guy is now on stage at the Vineyard Playhouse. As a cast member, it shines at every performance, as long as we keep its feet wet. I can sleep well now. And in my dream, I see my play taking on the life of The Fantasticks and running for years at the Playhouse where the catalpa grows up to be a hardy and shady soul fanning theatergoers with its leaves and snapping actors into line with its long bean pods.

Arnie Reisman and his wife, Paula Lyons, regularly appear on the weekly NPR comedy quiz show, Says You! He also writes for the Huffington Post. His play Not Constantinople runs at the Vineyard Playhouse through June 20.