There is no doubt that our connection with trees goes far beyond the physical. Even before recent research found that a vast network of mycorrhizal fungus weaves throughout a forest ecosystem, linking trees, shrubs and grasses in a symbiotic communications network, folklore and myth documented this special relationship. The Giving Tree and The Man Who Planted Trees, and tales of Johnny Appleseed, try to grasp the deep-seated nobility and sacred nature of our woodlands.
Our move from the city, in retrospect, was driven by a need to be among trees. There was never a moment we decided “Let’s move,” but rather a slow migration toward wilder spaces. We looked at precisely one house, decided to buy it on the drive home, and set the wheels in motion. Our first thought wasn’t “What is the status of the boiler?”, but “Where can we plant more trees?”
It turns out that we had things back-to-front, as the first real question was “What trees must we remove in order to make a start?” It seems that there had been no real assessment of the viability of existing trees during the last twenty years — and there were problems, literally, hanging over our heads. A gigantic Bradford Pear (well past the date it should have split and come crashing down on the bedroom) loomed ominously, and an ancient Silver Maple (already cabled) posed a real and present danger. This, along with several diseased White Pines and a dozen top-heavy Walnuts required the immediate attention of a really good tree surgeon.
On one hand, spending a significant amount of money on tree trimming doesn’t feel particularly satisfying, but during the first big windstorm (we get a lot of windstorms) We felt like real grown-ups having been proactive about averting disaster. And amidst the carnage of the chainsaws there remained several trees worth noting.
The Boxwoods
According to the guy who takes care of our Boxwoods (yes, we now have a guy who takes care of our Boxwoods), “These are older than the ones at Mt. Vernon.” Whether that’s true or not, this row of shrubs now towers over the house and is both an asset and a design challenge.
The Shagbark Hickory
Estimated to be around 100 years old, it seems to have been grafted onto different rootstock (according to the tree surgeon). Who was doing that in 1920, and why?
The Mighty Ailanthus
When we bought the house and saw this tree dominating the pasture we hoped that it was still alive and that it was a Beech. Alive it most certainly is, but alas, it is an Ailanthus (Tree of Heaven), the most hated invasive in the area. It’s redeemed by the fact that it is a male — they don’t reproduce with the rabbit-like efficiency of the females — and that it is the largest specimen anybody around here has seen. It is also a favorite haunt of the Red-Shouldered Hawks that nest nearby.
I must admit that looking over spaces that were once shaded, now bare, makes me a bit angry and somewhat philosophical. It seems that no substantial new trees were planted in a couple of decades, and now good stewardship demands that we strain our back and our budget to put things right. And unlike bulbs, shrubs and perennials, I may not be around to enjoy the full benefit of the trees that will replace those recently culled. But I’m reminded of a Chinese proverb I once read: “The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago, the second best time is today.” So let’s get started.
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I have adored trees since childhood. We have a huge try right next to our house that has been here longer than the house has, I swear. It was one of the things that attracted me to our house!
This installment really hits a chord. As the owner of a 100-year-old bungalow in a 1st ring suburban neighborhood in Cincinnati, I share your joys and concerns. A huge selling point for buying this house minutes after we saw it was the five gigantic pin oaks planted in the postage-stamp-sized front yard. They were planted shortly after the house was built (along with the hundreds of others in our neighborhood) and would take at least three adults to join hands around their trunks. They have shaded our under-insulated house in summertime, provided homes for generations of squirrels and 17-year cicadas; launchpads for hawks, owls and turkey vultures; and now at least one is home to a tree disease/fungus that is killing it. We've paid thousands to responsibly prune these trees in the 20 years we've lived here, but now it's time to remove the dying one before it destroys our house, the neighbors' house, our cars, or most terrifying of all - kills someone. Every tornado warning, powerful thunderstorm, ice storm or heavy snow threat brings heart-pounding anxiety - so far, downed limbs have only done "minor" roof damage and smashed understory plantings on our own property. Neighbors' trees have been the cause of winter power outages that, for some, have lasted several days. I hate the idea of "killing" a tree, but it's time. Hopefully, the other four will be healthy for years to come. We love these trees for so many reasons (definitely not for the MONTHS of pin oak leaf-raking that last until February), but when we bought the house we had know idea what kind of financial and emotional toll would go into their care. Anyone who plants a tree near human-inhabited structures should take into full account what that tree will grow into as it reaches maturity (we'll save rants about non-native invasives for another day). And folks who get "sentimental" about all these "wonderful old trees" that are being taken down need to understand some to the tree owner's nightmares. It's because we love them that we do what needs to been done to keep them, and us, healthy and safe.