To endure in place what the environment can deliver until it can endure no longer, that is the fate of a tree left to its own devices. Unless the ending is determined by a decision followed by a screaming chainsaw. The older trees, wide in girth and well above 50 feet tall, are the ones that draw most of my attention; and there are many of these in Macomb, my adopted town of three years. It takes a long time, comparable to an average human life span, to reach such a size (an obvious point, but one that cannot be stated often enough). And that is why it is such a sad event when one of the old ones in town is pushed over by a wind storm, even sadder if it is cut, and especially lamentable when the loss is not replaced by a sapling, but becomes part of a mowed lawn.
During each of the years that I have lived in Macomb, quite a few large trees in my neighborhood have been lost. The derecho of June 29th—which charged across parts of Iowa, Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana, with its 80- to 100-mile-per-hour straight-line winds—directly felled many, which blocked city streets and brought down power lines. During the same storm, a much greater number of trees lost small branches, large limbs, or whole sections. Some have remained as scarred veterans, but work crews would eventually take down the worst of the damaged ones.
In a city, it’s understandable when large trees that pose a threat to buildings are either greatly trimmed to reduce the threat or removed completely without haste. Ash trees have been targeted for complete removal because of infestations by the emerald ash borer, which eventually will kill any large ash. It will not be long before Macomb will be completely free of ash trees. Large elms have long ago been decimated by Dutch elm disease; but surprisingly, there are at least two healthy large individuals in my small neighborhood and maybe others elsewhere.
Being oriented toward numbers, I sometimes wonder what my town will look like in so many years with the current rate of tree loss. Within just one city block of my home, as far as I recall, ten medium- to large-sized trees were taken down in the last three years: two sugar maples, two oaks, three ashes, one Bradford pear, one river birch, one honey locust. Of these, nine were purposely felled. How many of these have been replaced with a sapling? None, as far as I can tell. This, of course, says nothing about areas farther than one block from my home, and the rate of 3.3 trees lost per year may not continue. But two ashes on my block are struggling with the ash borer and will soon be dead, at which point they will be completely removed and disposed of, probably next year. And I have my eye on two nearby sugar maples with more dead branches than would seem healthy.
As I travel around town on daily errands or for walks or bike rides, I look forward to seeing specific trees on my routes, like waving at an elderly friend relaxing on his front porch. They give me a good feeling. But I also see their problems and struggles: the massive eastern cottonwood on the west side with some of its large limbs hanging over a neighboring building; the white ash near the town center, with its base pushing against the sidewalk and curb; a pin oak that has long outgrown its small allotted space between the sidewalk and the street; the beech tree around the corner still free of beech bark disease, which is on its way to Illinois from the East; the eastern hemlock at Compton Park that always causes me to think of Michigan’s north woods and the hemlock woolly adelgid that has caused widespread death of hemlocks within the eastern states.
Pin oak growing over the curb, Macomb, Illinois.
The old trees struggling with the effects of age are reminders that the fate of every living thing is to die. It’s a message I can’t ignore, one that makes me appreciate them that much more and forces me to turn some of my attention toward the next generation. I’m keeping track of three saplings (pawpaw, red mulberry, redbud) on my personal property that I hope to see some day as medium-sized trees, if the next three decades go well— but not much more beyond that even with a best-case scenario. My three grandkids, though, have a better chance; they might even see those saplings become trees that reach a mature height. That scene I see in the only way possible, within my mind’s eye.
Dead tree with a honeybee hive inside, Glenwood Park, Macomb, Illinois.
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