So Long, Silver Maple

I awoke to the early morning light and a drone-like flurry of “bees.” Moving up the shade, my eyes took in the parade of heavy wood chipping machinery, engines warming, ready to go. Thick mats were thrown down, preparing the way for rolling them in, a regal entrance led by the yellow-jacket and helmeted entourage.

Then I remembered. My heart fluttered; my mouth went dry. Today was the day to say goodbye to my favorite tree. This was so upsetting because I love trees, fragrant pine, sweet cherry and the glorious bloom of dogwood. One in particular had taken root in my heart—a fifty-foot, overgrown, silver maple behind our garage. Most likely, it had self-seeded as it was hedged between the shed and our grape arbor. Over the years it grew and grew. Watching it reach toward cerulean blue, my neck had to bend more and more to where my back ached. It was a huge canopy in the clouds.

Now Jack, the woodcutter had arrived. My stomach twisted and lurched. There was a surreal sense, my head woozy. I swiped a tear.

Soon the silver maple would be no more.

Life is all about change … the days flutter by like a sepia aged film strip. There is a play-by-play running through memory banks. With longing eyes, there was hope my children would grow strong roots. Like the maple, these roots would also produce great blossoms that shelter with gentle breezes—prompting happy lives. Episodic memory in full gear as the life of the maple entwined with our lives, embracing events that were most singular to remember and affirm. And for me it was a kind of symbiotic relationship, a special communication between two different life organisms … myself and the silver maple. Especially during those earlier years as a mother...so many life experiences were left to ponder then and now.

I watched intently trying not to miss a thing so that this moment would sear into my mind. My nose mashed on the kitchen window. As the first limb was cut and carried away, I recalled the scenario that had once taken place under it in the large sandbox. The four young ones laughed with glee as they molded sand forts and filled up their pails and trucks.

Another lower bough followed. As this one hovered over the arbor, on the deck under the flowing maple leaves, was the memory of a large refrigerator box. The children commandeered this empty carton and fashioned it into an enormous vessel navigating choppy waters, or a rocket being launched to a galaxy far, far away. Then with a swipe of the saw, one of the highest, foliage filled branches was lifted across the yard. Now I recalled one of my favored moments, enjoying the swing set. Each youngster was pushed higher and higher until they could almost swipe this top branch. Now the tears were flowing, my cheek blush becoming long crimson streaks. The floodgates had opened.

Through blurry eyes, I began to laugh.

Ah … the silver maple. Memory flipped to the other side, which brought out the tired frowns and the angry murmurings. I recalled the changing of seasons. When Spring arrived, the grass came in, thick and green and made my toes tickle. Smile? But wait. The tree’s seedlings had yet to fall … and down they came. In mounds covering the fresh lawn. Raking them was futile. The piles continued denser than ever. Bag after bag was filled with thousands of these whirly bird saplings. Hands were blistered and rough. No happy grins here.

Then flowed the summer. The constant heat and humidity made the tree thirsty, so it lapped up all the rain and hose watering intended for the yard. The limbs widened, the leaves became heavier as the maple stalked to the sky. To anchor itself, the tree thickened its gnarly roots, the yard becoming a painful obstacle course. Careful where you walked!

The season again changed and elegantly washed the silver maple in lovely golden color, Fall. As the glittery leaves fell, the children gleefully piled and jumped into them. But when the yard filled with wet, knee-high foliage, the children groaned as they raked pile after pile. There seemed to be no end to it.

Hurricanes were terrible, just terrible. And since the tree was hollowing out in places from decay, violent wind was disturbing. I had to keep a close eye on the maple. So I would steady a chair near a window—but not too close— praying that the tree would stand and not crash the garage and the house. Severe rain splattered my view as the fierce winds swept though, bending boughs to a scary unnatural limit. Then came that dreadful cracking sound as branches downed on the shed and arbor. I put my hands over my ears hoping the storm would calm.

Suddenly the howling stopped and the rain ceased. The sun appeared and glimmered like nothing had happened.

Winter’s chill then bit on my fingertips. As the last leaf was swept into the compost pile, the temperature dropped. Followed by lovely little snowflakes, that became heavy mounds. In the morning glow, ice thickly covered branches, postcard worthy. Breathtaking. Until tree limbs groaned, and snapped off, into not so awesome heaps as they filled the entire backyard.

So much angst.

The chainsaw was yawning in high gear. The last of the thick tree trunk was sliced off. I raced outside to the porch, catching sight of it has it was hauled through the sky and lowered onto the logging truck and driven away.

The silver maple was no more.

I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sun, remembering the radiant beams playfully streaking through the silver maple’s graceful branches. Nodding in appreciation.

… and that’s how I live it.