Elegy for a Tree

I awoke early one Thursday morning to a whooshing crunch. Disoriented, I crept around inside, still in my pajamas. Did a helicopter land on the roof? A washing machine crash in the attic?

But the windows told the story. Hurricane Helene had uprooted our neighbour’s tree. The sunroom’s ceiling buckled and shards of glass covered the floor. The giant hickory that had shaded our backyard, dropping nuts musically on the concrete driveway and flavouring whatever we put on the grill, had begun its descent to its end.

Branches jutted through the attic, letting in light. Others covered the roof, darkening the house. And two strong limbs, like two strong arms, wrapped around the back of the office. “It’s hugging you goodbye,” a friend wrote when I posted the photo. It was impossible not to agree.

We did what we had to do. We called the insurance company and hired a tree removal service. And then the sad business began. Chainsaws. Heavy equipment. A giant bin on the street. Men in hard hats with ropes, one in a bucket rising high in the air. Our phones kept buzzing. So did the machines.

When a tree comes down in a neighbourhood, the community rearranges itself around the spectacle. Cars are moved into the street, dogs locked in the house. People walking by stop and chat, compare damage and electricity outages. The roof rumbles with the sound of heavy limbs coming down, men’s voices giving and taking instruction. It’s like an earthquake over your head.

It took two days for that giant hickory to be removed, section by section from our small brick house. By then, 166 people were killed by Hurricane Helene, a number that rose to 230 by the time all fatalities were counted.

And what about the trees? Has there been a count for them? Forestry agencies calculated acres destroyed, but I can’t find numbers for the individuals, like our marvellous old faithful that couldn’t withstand the high winds of that brutal storm.

“I’m glad my parents are dead so they don’t have to see this,” my friend Tom said, describing flattened family land, trees down everywhere. He has that visual, while I have the hug. I can’t get it out of my mind.

When it was being removed, the tree appeared so much bigger than we realized. With its tremendous boughs naked to the sky, it look like a strong brown skeleton. It didn’t deserve this ugly end. I didn’t know I would feel so upset—not just at the tree falling but that I didn’t appreciate it when it stood.

A few years ago, our neighbour across the street learned he had to take down two trees that had died and presented a danger to the house. He was loudly upset. Wally tried to make him feel better, saying it was the smart thing to do, the only thing to do, but I decided to acknowledge his feelings.

“It’s still a loss,” I said. “Thank you,” he swiftly returned. 

Trees can be so visibly invisible, like the people we appreciate but not fully until they’re gone. At some point we will have a new sunroom and our house will “increase in value,” as real estate people say. I’m sure it will be very nice. But I’d rather have that tree dropping nuts on our driveway. It meant so much, I realize now.