It’s spring. The ground
phlox blooms pink over granite ledge, the blossoms from one round of
rhododendrons drop while another readies to pop. We’ve greened up nicely, but amidst my
gardening chores this weekend, I discovered repercussions from The Great Tree Tragedy of Winter, 2013. Although
we’ve finally cleaned up the area where a massive oak demolished our shed, sheared
off the tops of five pines and irrevocably altered the appearance of our yard, the
tree that caused the mess is having a final say.
Our new shed rests a few feet back from the footprint of the
old one. The fat leafed Hostas that used
to sit by the door of the old building now sit too far out. While deciding where to move them, we noticed
seedlings. Amidst the wood chips left over from stump
grinding, in between the stone steps and crevices that populate our yard, tiny oaks have burst forth from the bumper crop of acorns the old tree spewed
when it crashed to the earth. I spend an hour on my knees yanking the little
guys up on Sunday, before realizing eliminating them will be a long-term
project.
Even more than the damage caused by the tree itself, this burgeoning
yield communicates the ultimate authority of nature. Oh
sure. We notice when she comes at us
with wind and snow, rain, hurricanes and tornadoes. Newscasters are quick to
sensationalize those big ticket events, the ones that bully us with strength
and ferocity. A few months later in our side yard though,
Mother Nature demonstrates a more subtle power.
As I sat yanking sprouts up by the roots, it became clear to
me how inconsequential my place is on this earth. I’m a hiccup really, even less. We’ve lived in
our home 21 years. But were we to turn
our backs, in less than half that time the yard we’ve tilled, planted and edged
would return to brush and trees. The acorns
deposited across our half-acre have the potential to contour the landscape long
after I’ve become nothing more than compost.
So what if I pull this crop up? There
will always be more. Year after year, oaks,
maples, pines and ash will disperse a gazillion more seeds which will in turn, become
trees. At some point, the invasive pricker-vines
I dig up each spring will have their way.
The poison ivy that seeds itself in my gardens will drown out the perennials
I tend to with love. Bittersweet vines will become an impenetrable tangle.
As I sat in the shade of two oak saplings we’ve “allowed” to
grow over the last few years gazing out over an area now populated with baby oaks,
I understood the temporary and inconsequential nature of our presence here. We call it “our” house, and “our” yard. But really, it’s on loan to us from a relatively
benevolent Mother Nature. Once in a
while, she feels the need to deliver a blatant reminder that she’s in charge. Most of the time though, she humors us by
letting us garden and mulch and shape the land, full well knowing in the end, she’ll
take her earth back and form it how she pleases.
