Final Farewell to Our Tree

Its bark was thick and tough and as creased as the skin of a wise old African elephant. Its triple trunks had towered over the little house long before I was born, probably before my great grandfather was born.

But, like every other ash tree, it was not immune to the vicissitudes of time or the relentless tenacity of the tiny emerald ash borer. Little by little, over the years, we therapeutically pruned the dying limbs, twenty feet off the ground, thirty feet, forty feet, until all that was left, other than dying branches, was the tree’s canopy that cast shadows over half the lawn. Sometimes, when limbs gave up on their own, we didn’t need to prune. They would just snap off under their own dead half-ton weight and thud to ground, shaking the earth like a dinosaur’s footfall.

Now, for its curtain call, its leaves were falling in its final autumn. It had been determined and reconfirmed by more than one consultant that the tree’s inevitable death spiral had made it dangerous, that a massive limb or one of its three main trunks could split off and fall on our deck, on our roof, on us. No more pruning would save it. It was on life support and it was time to pull the plug.

It was time to cut it down. Time to cut down the tree that had provided our kids with a sturdy arm for their rope swing thirty years ago, that had provided us cooling shade in the hot, humid Berkshire summers and golden foliage in autumn, that had been home to countless birds, squirrels, and less friendly occupants, that had been the majestic centerpiece of our yard from the day we moved in over forty years ago.

I sat on the deck, peering way up to where a couple decades ago we had a tree guy cable the three trunks together to prevent the tripartite base from splitting in strong winds. How many thousands of dollars we had spent caring for that tree, all of it worth every penny. Now, some of it would be cut up into firewood to burn in our woodstove to keep us warm in winter, some more of it would be chipped into mulch to keep our vegetable garden tidy, and the rest would be hauled away.

I sat on the deck, communing with the tree for the last time. The tree guy would be here soon with his crew to cut it down, and I didn’t want to be around to watch. I felt guilty.

The tree climber with his spiked shoes, ropes, and chain saw would clamber up the tree and start lopping off limbs from the top down. When they landed, most of it would be shoved into the chipper and blown into the back of the truck. Little by little, the tree would be whittled down until nothing was left but its massive stump, four feet in diameter. Before nature takes over and the stump itself slowly but surely begins to rot I’ll count the rings in honor and in memory of its time on earth. Regardless, in another generation, no one will know this magnificent tree ever existed except for photos and stories.

As I looked up in at the tree for the last time, a breeze stirred the tree’s upper limbs, as if saying goodbye. I know it’s my imagination, but I think it knew.