Early yesterday morning, I heard a thundering thud . . . so loud, it scared my cat, Jem, and drove me outside my front door.
Had accumulated snow melted and slipped from a tall building? Impossible, it was July. Had a hundred bales of hay fallen from an airplane? Perhaps — farmland was just two miles away. Had a bulldozer lost its balance and tipped to its side in someone’s yard? Yes, that was it — the city’s been repairing a lot of drain pipes this summer.
It was not a bulldozer. It was my favorite tree — a willow oak just 50 yards from my house. A huge branch had broken off. I never heard the snap, only the thundering thud. A woman with her dog was staring at the broken branch in shock and disbelief. “I walked past that tree not more than five minutes ago. That branch was not there. It would have crushed us.”
Within an hour, an arborist named Ryan and a tree clean-up crew had arrived on the scene. Ryan pointed to the white interior and the surrounding deadwood. “Looks like heart rot,” he said. “She’s probably going to have to come down.”
“But I talk to her all the time,” I replied. “She’s kinda like my Washington Monument. She orients me. I know I’m close to home when I see her. I’ve been looking at her for more than 28 years.”
“She’s not that old,” Ryan continued. “I’d say she’s only about 80. That’s the thing about willow oaks, though. They grow so big so fast, but it makes them vulnerable — their insides aren’t as strong as other trees. You gotta grow slow to stay strong.”
“Are you going to have to bring her down?” I asked.
“Not sure. I’m sending a chunk of that end piece to the lab, but it looks like the rot has taken over her core,” said Ryan. “She’s probably going to have to come down.”
“Will you let me know when? This sounds kind of loony, but I’d like to bless the spirit of the tree or something before she’s gone forever.”
“Uh, yeah . . . bless the tree . . . the spirit, uh . . . right,” said Ryan taking photographs, then looking at his watch. “Listen, I gotta tell these guys what to do.” He walked away.
I saw a large broken piece of wood at the base of the tree. It was heavy, but I carried it to my front porch and leaned it against the outside closet door. The wood was healthy, strong and smelled fresh. I will put it in my backyard. It won’t grow, but for a while, it won’t be gone forever.
“A stricken tree, a living thing, so beautiful, so dignified, so admirable in its potential longevity, is, next to man, perhaps the most touching of all wounded objects.” — Novelist Edna Ferber
My willow oak, November 9, 2011
“You gotta grow slow to stay strong.”
Ponder that for a while.
A few massive oaks still surround my childhood home. One collapsed twenty feet from the house in the aftermath of a storm. I remember driving home after midnight and even in the dark puzzling that the light was distinctly and eerily different from that corner of the house. I did not know until the next morning that the light was different because of the expanse of space left in its aftermath. Even the neighbors rallied around it in the early morning, still wearing their bathrobes, holding cups of coffee, shaking their heads; dogs sniffing, stunned. We snapped pictures in kodachrome, awe-struck. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” But our noblest of all died upright. Its crinkled, cinammony leaves still attached in the spring. Dry, immovable in summer. We kept saying, “It’s a late bloomer. Leaves will green out.” Felled by August, a friend managed to chunk some of the least dry, least dead wood. Mom was heartsick. All of us were heartsick. At Christmas she was given three imperfect bowls. A woodworker managed to carve and shape them in tribute to this oak around which, while we grew slow, tip toed over its roots, darted behind to hide from one another, swung from its branches, traced blacksnakes up and down its gritty bark, from there chipmunks scurried, woodpeckers drummed; under its canopy, lawn chairs reclined, fireworks watched, reunions held, parties celebrated, people toasted, shaded from sun. Cradled in its strength. Gone. But the sacred oaken bowl which still holds such memories.
Good Lord, AC, what a beautiful post and tribute to your beloved childhood oak. Thank you very much for taking the time to write and then post these eloquent words.
I have a habit — ask any of my beloveds — of printing up emails, posts from their own blogs, etc. and affixing them into my journal. Several of your emails are already taped in there. This post is joining them.
What’s it gonna take for you to believe that you’re a poet?
xoxo
It goes without saying — though I didn’t say it in the post — that I was very, very grateful that the woman and her dog were not crushed by the branch. Also, no property was damaged. The top of the branch was literally one inch from two cars parked in a court parking lot.
The branch did fall on a grove of shrubs that for years has been inhabited by rabbits. Hope the critters are okay.
There is something profound about a tree, any tree, but especially a beloved tree to whom you have talked for years. Such a loss is truly a death in our lives, a time for mourning, and I’m sorry that this is another such time for you. Good for you for saving a piece of that tree. Any chance of a small bowl being carved from this precious piece?
Carol — thank you for affirming how important this tree is to me, though I didn’t realize it until yesterday. Also, I love the idea of having a bowl — or something — carved from the piece I salvaged. If the tree does, in fact, have to go down, I hope I’m around. Maybe I can get a larger piece.
That was one beautiful oak tree. I will be sorry to see her go. It’s amazing how trees become companions in our lives. Do tell us about your blessing of the tree. A big old beautiful tree like that deserves a blessing.
Judy — you are the beloved who made me look at trees in a new way. Once upon a time, I just walked by. But you showed me how to look at them.
I have a favorite tree when I walk on the weekends that I named after my father. “Good morning, Andy! How ya doin’?” I’ll have to introduce you to Andy some time. xoxo
Sharie, you’ll understand the purpose of this comment, but that’s a really beautiful piece of wood. Let’s see what comes of it.
Hey everyone . . . Wendy is taking one for the team. There’s YET ANOTHER GLITCH that we’re troubleshooting. At this point, I’m going to start hitting myself over the head with that really beautiful piece of wood.
A beautiful song Mister Rogers wrote about trees seems quite appropriate for this post:
Okay, I confess: I sang along when Mr. Rogers invited me to. Yes, I did.
Sweet and beautiful. Thanks for posting, Merrie Lee.
Sorry I am late to the party. Great tree and you do not have to wait for any official word to bless her. She deserves a blessing now. Also you can let her bless you. I just read about leaning back against a tree and how that can bring you energy from tree/earth. This is already one of your great relationships
Oh, I know this tree and have been blessed by her expansive beauty. I would sure be sorry to see her go, but if it happens, I will happily contribute to buying a slow growing beauty to plant in her lovely footprint. It was a treat to read of your deep connection and fondness for this tree.
I’m up early, as usual, but this morning wrestling with loss in general. Happens a lot at this stage of life. Your comment was a gift in many ways, Beth. Adrienne thinks that the city plants a tree when it loses one. I’ll let you know. If not, we’ll contribute together. I’m going to move ahead with the mutual blessing as Charlotte suggested in her wise comment. xoxo
The tree hasn’t been taken down yet. I’m wondering how they will decide whether or not to remove it. Even with the broken branch, it is still quite magnificent.
As for that piece of wood, there is something about it just as it is. The rawness of it. For such a small chunk, you can feel its weight.