When we bought our house in New Jersey, there was a tree on the corner of the front yard. Its trunk split into a V at about the height of my shoulders. The people who sold us the house said it was a cottonwood tree, and this type was very rare in NJ. As far as they knew, our cottonwood was one of only three or four in the whole state.
We loved that tree. The trunk sloped gently up to the point where it split, and I held the hands of each of my three children as they took baby steps up its trunk. They would sit perched in the V and then jump into my arms, growing braver as they got older until they were jumping down themselves.
Other kids on the block were drawn to the inviting shape of the cottonwood, and I would often look out the window to see some neighborhood kid carefully inching his or her way up its side.
At least once, and sometimes, twice a year the tree would produce its cotton. White, wispy, and soft, it would whirl about the neighborhood, coming to nest on all our manicured suburban lawns. If it bothered anybody, they never complained. I thought it was beautiful.
Every so often the town would send tree guys up an down the streets to clip branches that were interfering with power and phone lines, or those that looked precariously close to falling on someone's head. My cottonwood always needed plenty of pruning. The tree guys told me it was dying.
"You should just take the whole tree down before it falls," they warned me.
"But it still makes cotton every year," I'd insist. "And it's home for so many animals."
This was true. It had a hollow spot about 15 or 20 feet up which housed a family of squirrels in the winter and the same two starlings each summer. Higher up in the branches other birds built their nests.
The tree guys would shake their heads at my ignorance, and continue pruning. They knew I was peeking out the windows, watching them, making sure they didn't get carried away.
One year the doorbell rang, and there stood a tree guy holding a deep, intricately woven bird's nest. "It's an old oriole nest that was hanging off a branch way up," he confessed sheepishly. "I thought your kids might like to see it."
They did. We treasured that nest, and it came with us when we moved here to the Vineyard.
We'd already been here several years when our old neighbors told us the cottonwood had finally come down, just keeled over in the middle of one day without causing any harm.
When the tree guys were called in to saw it up and cart it away, our neighbors ran over and took a large piece of the trunk, which they passed along to us. I polyurethaned it and use it as a plant stand in front of my fireplace. I can count every ring in that trunk, and see the years it grew like a weed, and the years water was scarce and it barely grew at all.
We went to a barbecue at the home of those neighbors this summer when we were down in NJ, and I thanked them again for saving us that hunk of our cottonwood.
"You should go take a look," their 22 year-old son told me. "Another cottonwood is growing in its place."
We traipsed out to look across the street at our old front yard. Sure enough, there is another cottonwood growing right where they cut down the old one.
It even looks like this new cottonwood trunk is splitting into a V. With any luck, one day, like its parent, it too will be perfect for climbing.
We loved that tree. The trunk sloped gently up to the point where it split, and I held the hands of each of my three children as they took baby steps up its trunk. They would sit perched in the V and then jump into my arms, growing braver as they got older until they were jumping down themselves.
Other kids on the block were drawn to the inviting shape of the cottonwood, and I would often look out the window to see some neighborhood kid carefully inching his or her way up its side.
At least once, and sometimes, twice a year the tree would produce its cotton. White, wispy, and soft, it would whirl about the neighborhood, coming to nest on all our manicured suburban lawns. If it bothered anybody, they never complained. I thought it was beautiful.
Every so often the town would send tree guys up an down the streets to clip branches that were interfering with power and phone lines, or those that looked precariously close to falling on someone's head. My cottonwood always needed plenty of pruning. The tree guys told me it was dying.
"You should just take the whole tree down before it falls," they warned me.
"But it still makes cotton every year," I'd insist. "And it's home for so many animals."
This was true. It had a hollow spot about 15 or 20 feet up which housed a family of squirrels in the winter and the same two starlings each summer. Higher up in the branches other birds built their nests.
The tree guys would shake their heads at my ignorance, and continue pruning. They knew I was peeking out the windows, watching them, making sure they didn't get carried away.
One year the doorbell rang, and there stood a tree guy holding a deep, intricately woven bird's nest. "It's an old oriole nest that was hanging off a branch way up," he confessed sheepishly. "I thought your kids might like to see it."
They did. We treasured that nest, and it came with us when we moved here to the Vineyard.
We'd already been here several years when our old neighbors told us the cottonwood had finally come down, just keeled over in the middle of one day without causing any harm.
When the tree guys were called in to saw it up and cart it away, our neighbors ran over and took a large piece of the trunk, which they passed along to us. I polyurethaned it and use it as a plant stand in front of my fireplace. I can count every ring in that trunk, and see the years it grew like a weed, and the years water was scarce and it barely grew at all.
We went to a barbecue at the home of those neighbors this summer when we were down in NJ, and I thanked them again for saving us that hunk of our cottonwood.
"You should go take a look," their 22 year-old son told me. "Another cottonwood is growing in its place."
We traipsed out to look across the street at our old front yard. Sure enough, there is another cottonwood growing right where they cut down the old one.
It even looks like this new cottonwood trunk is splitting into a V. With any luck, one day, like its parent, it too will be perfect for climbing.
That is just so...neat. Great story! How nice of your former neighbor to cut a piece of it and send it to you.
Posted by: Jan | September 21, 2009 at 10:19 AM
Wow, such a great tree circle of life! And that's so cool that your old neighbors kept you a piece and knew how much that tree meant to you.
Posted by: Casey | September 21, 2009 at 10:51 AM
Some things can't be defeated. Temporarily, maybe, but not forever.
Posted by: LPC | September 21, 2009 at 10:56 AM
Old neighbor checking in here (perhaps we should say "neighbor of a certain age"?) to add her memories of cool photos posed in the tree, tree as pirate/superhero/spy look-out and also the perfect visual frame for your old garden when glimpsed from across the street.
Love, R
Posted by: Rosemary | September 21, 2009 at 12:22 PM
Lovely story.
It's funny how attached we become to trees.
In our old house, we had to have part of our front yard dug up to replace the sewer line. There was some concern that the Japanese maple would have to go. This was our family's favorite tree, so we worked hard to avoid that scenario -- one of the girls even threatened to tie herself to the tree in order to save it.
Posted by: Jen on the Edge | September 21, 2009 at 12:49 PM
I love this post. Love that you have a piece of that tree in your current home. Love that the new generation is growing in the same place...
Thank you for sharing, Maureen!
Posted by: Erin | September 21, 2009 at 01:14 PM
Just lovely. Your posts seem to get me right in the sweet spot where my eyes start to tear up.
Posted by: Erin@TheLocalsLoveIt | September 21, 2009 at 03:53 PM
Aww, that's a nice story. I wish we had a big climbing tree.
Posted by: Arwen | September 21, 2009 at 04:10 PM
Beautiful, my friend, just beautiful . . .
Posted by: lizspin | September 21, 2009 at 06:08 PM
How kind of you to let the neighborhood kids climb this tree! Some people would be all crotchety and shoo them away. I'm sure that tree made wonderful memories for many children...kudos for you!
Posted by: kathryn | September 21, 2009 at 08:29 PM
Oh, that's just beautiful. I love memories like that.
Posted by: Kimberly | September 22, 2009 at 12:06 AM
You have that greatest stories and you do such a great job of writing them up! : )
Posted by: Twenty Four At Heart | September 22, 2009 at 01:38 AM
Simply beautiful Maureen. May I know roughly how old was the tree?
Posted by: Ocean Girl | September 22, 2009 at 06:13 AM
I love the way you tell this story. I'm all weepy! About a tree! Argh! Hormones!
Posted by: Sprite's Keeper | September 23, 2009 at 02:28 PM