A Walker in the Suburbs

Who knows when the great red oak was born, when the acorn that gave it life fell to the ground, found pliable soil, sent down roots? Decades, maybe 100 years or more, when second-growth forest filled in this land that once was farmed. 

I stepped into its history 33 years ago and found in its lofty shelter a stateliness and calm. It became, in fact, our signature tree, the one I think of first when I think of our house. 

It had been ailing for years, a fact I noticed with the same pit in the stomach I’ve had when running my tongue over an aching molar. But the measures we took — pruning, watering, fertilizing — did not save it. The ambrosia beetle, an opportunistic insect that moves in after years of drought and other stresses, killed it in a single season.

All summer I’ve been lamenting the tree’s brittle boughs, its withered foliage. I’ve been dreading the moment that finally came. 

Now the red oak is felled, its great trunk piled around the yard, so much lumber. Soon the logs will be carted away, too. 

It’s not the greatest loss I’ve ever sustained … but it’s a loss, just the same. 

Names carry power; they encourage reverence. In some branches of Judaism, one writes G-d to show respect for the Creator. 

I found it ironic, then, as I walked through the yard with an arborist yesterday, to learn the names of the trees on our property. Ironic because several of them are ailing — and two of them have died. 

Oh, I knew there were oak trees in the front, had even learned last year that one of the sick trees is a pin oak. But did I understand that pin oaks are a member of the red oak family? No, I did not. Nor did I know that a chestnut oak is sitting right next to a tall holly in the side yard. Or that, wonder of wonders, a sassafras tree is thriving alongside the fence by the trampoline. 

From now on, the trees that remain will be cared for more diligently. And no wonder: Now, they have names.

(No problem naming this beauty. Crepe myrtles well in these parts. We may be planting more of them.)

The forecast had been warning us of severe thunderstorms. But they didn’t have to. The weight of the air and the persistence of the breeze foretold a system building, gathering strength, ready to unleash its full force.

Though there has been rain this season there haven’t been many thunderstorms, the kind of skies-darkening, wind-whistling tempests that for some of us are part of summer. Yesterday’s storm made up for it. Trees bent from the wind, branches fell, hail did, too. It didn’t last long but it was dramatic.

In the end, we were left with a mess to clean up … but much of it is already in the bin. 

Yesterday, we had to have another tree taken down. This was a skinny oak, more skeleton than tree. Its removal leaves no real hole in the canopy. It left us slowly, which made it easier. 

While examining that tree, the neighborhood’s chief tree guy, Carmen, spotted another oak near the house, one that has much more meaning for me, one that the girls’ zip wire line used to run from, one that sits prominently in the middle of the yard.

“It’s half-dead now,” Carmen said, “Call me when the next half dies.” 

I take each downed tree personally. For me, a dead tree is a lost friend. For Carmen, a dead tree is more business. I call him the Grim Reaper. 

(Yesterday’s removal process at the top of the page, and a 2018 loss here.)