One Tree in Time

As trees come and go, this one, a poplar, wasn't one to write home about. It was just always there through the more than forty years we've lived in the house. It was steadfast. It observed the seasons and was faithful in its yearly duties. It serviced the bees in the spring with its tulip shaped blossoms. It offered shade to the house under the scorching summer sun. It fed the squirrels in the fall with its helicopter seeds. It entertained my children when they were old enough to climb trees. My son and his friends propped their bicycles on its trunk to use as a ladder to reach the first limb. From their post in the higher limbs they spun helicopter seeds hoping to land them on car roofs as the neighbors drove past. 

Sigh.

When we cut it down last week I felt I betrayed its goodness. If the tree could have talked, it would have been saying, "What did I do?" That answer is its downfall. It was being a tree, doing what a tree does, growing. Sad thing, its outer limbs had the beginnings of spring leafing. 

We first noticed our driveway cement cracking over a decade ago. We ignored it. Several years later the cracks became larger and the source became apparent. Tracing the hairline fractures to the edge we determined the roots from said poplar tree were infringing on the driveway. How interesting, we thought, but still we ignored it. Eventually the roots pushed up from under the cement, pushed, pushed and pushed seeking the rainwater for its thirsty soul. 

Life got in the way and the order of priorities brought cutting the tree lower than other more necessary purchases. Big mistake. The cement bent upward, like a volcano rising from the depths looking for a place to blow. Last week I almost turned my ankle stepping on the crack. It wasn't quite to the level of "Step on a crack, break your mother's back," but I could see that in my future. I knew then something had to give, and it wasn't going to be the driveway any more.

So with our covid stimulus money, and a whole lot more, we called the tree cutting company. They arrived Thursday morning with their cherry picker truck, chainsaws, wood chippers and leaf blowers. By lunch, the outer limbs had been transformed to mulch and hauled away. By midafternoon, the trunk was scooped off the ground into a waiting dump truck. Cleanup was quick. Soon only a stump was left to say this tree in time ever existed. But by late afternoon, even that stump had been ground into mulch and left for us to use. 

The men and their machines left, money in their pockets for a job well done. 

A pile of stump mulch remained and next day, my husband set to work spreading it over our backyard "natural" area. Then he set to digging the offending roots from under the cement. 

The tree might have been erased from our yard, but it had the revenge only a tree could give. Those roots that so forcefully pushed up from the underworld and cracked our driveway to pieces were formidable, to say the least. Sturdy. Thick. Determined to sustain its above ground self. 

Sigh.

There's a lesson in there, although my husband with his sore shoulders and arms isn't in the mood to listen just now. And I'm still sad over what had to be.

Next summer, when the unforgiving sun heats the air, there will be no shade tree blocking the rays.  With no tulip shaped blooms luring them, the bees will have less reason to seek out the little garden in our side yard to pollinate our future vegetables. The squirrels will look elsewhere for nourishment. Our children are long grown away from tree climbing, but what about the grandchildren! 

When a tree falls in the side yard does anyone hear it? 

Catch of the day,

Gretchen