We already miss it, but it’s good we decided to do away with it.
A silver maple (species: Acer saccharinum) that has dominated the front yard of our Belmont subdivision dwelling over the 40 years we’ve lived there, is all but gone. What remains is the rock-solid base, some 44 inches across, and we’re stumped at the moment how best to remove it – by grinding, a much faster solution, or with chemicals, a much slower, less costly, but still effective approach.
This giant of nature was a mere sapling when we moved into the Belmont subdivision the summer of 1971, one of only several live trees dotting the front and back yard landscape. I never would have planted a silver maple, but we were renters at the time and thought the owners would return within a year and wouldn’t take kindly to our removing this “weed.”
The silver maple is one of the most common maple trees in the central United States and – as we quickly discovered – among the fastest growing of the maple family. The wood is soft and can be damaged by severe wind or ice storms – as we also found out over the years.
We can also testify to the invasive nature of the tree’s sprawling root system. Why the tree was planted over the French drains that stretched across the yard remains a mystery. Small wonder that the tree shot up so rapidly; it was well-nourished. A year ago, its roots completely blocked the main sewer line that comes down the hill past our place, the rather foul contents making a detour through our two bathrooms.
Last summer, a main limb came crashing down, fortunately in the middle of the lawn, in a wind storm last summer, which set us on a determined course to either give the tree a major trimming or, if we could somehow afford to, bring it down completely.
In short, it was a love-hate relationship – appreciation of the beauty of this magnificent natural creation that provided much shade through the hot summer months for many years, and frustration by large branches often landing in the yard (it seemed like bad weather would wait until we were out of town to strike) and on our house roof, coupled to the nagging fear that the remainder of it would ultimately land on our roof.
Enter our amazing handyman, son-in-law Jason Kiser. “Yeah, I’d like to take it on,” he said sort of “aw-shucks”-like. “I think I can do it. It’ll be a challenge.”
Jason rose to the occasion, but as he ascended the branches, it gave us pause to see him hanging on precariously with one hand while maneuvering his chain saw with the other.
Jason wisely called on a tree trimmer with a boom to come and lop off the tallest branches, which he in turn cut up and hauled away.
Daughters Jenny and Sara could hardly stand to see the tree’s removal – it was a significant part of their childhood; they’d climbed and played in its branches many times – and had their picture taken with it as it was being taken down, piece by piece.
At first, even second and third gaze, it appeared that the massive tree was so firmly entrenched, so robust and rock-solid, that it would take an inland tsunami to ever subdue it.
Looks can be deceiving.
All outward appearances gave the impression of everything well-rooted, healthy and sound, but inside . . .?
When the main truck finally came down, at the crotch where the trunk splits into two major limbs, the rather disarming discovery was made – just a narrow band of healthy wood that was holding everything else together. The inner section was basically rotted, dead wood.
According to Jason, all it might have taken was one more heavy wet snow or severe wind storm – like we’ve had several of recently – and the main section of the tree would likely have ended up on on our roof. It was providential that the tree came down before it ended up bringing our roof down.
The once mighty maple is reduced to a massive stump in the ground, and while an organic object that’s been an important part of our lives for so long is now gone, we’re left with good memories. A sugar maple that I planted years ago next to the silver maple appears healthy, well-shaped and thriving, as do two Japanese maples that my dad gave us as saplings to plant the first year we lived here.
Life is a process filled with ebb and flow that requires periodic “pruning” of our vigorous joints and sinews for personal growth and restoration to continue.
Making reductions or giving something up, like the silver maple, even when all seems to be going well, can be painful, something we prefer to avoid, but may prove exceedingly instructive and, ultimately, transformative.
And that’s no cutting remark.
Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at [email protected].
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