September, 2011
It was planted oh so many years ago by my father, one of a pair of curbside trees framing the front of my home. The first tree died of root girdling many years ago, leaving the remaining tree to flourish. It grew, losing its leaves late in fall after all the landscapers were done, and spewed these wonderful prickly things that must have been the inspiration for Velcro. Martha Stewart even made a wreath of them last year in her September or October magazine. Soon it raised my sidewalk and lifted my curbs at the expansion joints. The sharp protruding edges of curbing flattened a few tires. It still grew, strong to the sky.
Last winter, as I turned sixty and reached the certain autumn of my life and perhaps its winter, I kept company with an aging dachshund. I carried my beloved 17 year old Ernie outside to do "his business" several times a day. For those of you who think that dachshunds are just another teeny dog, a full sized dachshund weighs 22-25 pounds, if kept at fighting weight. So as a woman with arthritis who isn’t quite sure that sixty is the new fifty, I maneuvered up and down the front steps of my home carrying Ernie on my hip as I carefully tried to avoid the ice and "gumballs." I knew the tree was a hazard, which could cause me on any night to twist my ankle on an unseen gumball and fall in the dark holding on to my beloved pet. By day I did what I could to locate and remove any errant gumballs so as to protect myself and passers by from falling. But, I knew. The tree had to go. I spoke to my arborist, who said he could not work on it without LIPA turning off the power. He suggested I contact my Village DPW and see if they would quarterback the project. On to my list of things to do this went.
Ernie died in June. The mighty gum continued to grow. It outlived a dwarf Pound Sweet apple tree and the rear yard maple tree that taught me the meaning of the word dappled as I looked through its leaves to the summer sky.
The mighty sweet gum survived Hurricane Irene, strong and tall. But alas, she came down. In one proverbial fell swoop when troops imported from Michigan by LIPA decided its life was cheap and it would be easier to remove any and all impediments to re-stringing downed lines than attempt to preserve non-offending mature trees that were in their way. (With the sweet gum two truly unoffensive neighboring Bradford pears also bit the dust.)
I am ambivalent. I will not feel so old or endangered this winter as I am walking Ernie’s successor in the snow and ice. But, she was a grand old tree. Yesterday, mid day was the last time I smelled the tannic smell of fresh cut wood. She has died, giving off her last hurrah of life.
This weekend, I will celebrate this grand old tree by having a few friends over to count her rings and share a toast.
P.S. Forty-eight
