The Maple

Last fall I wrote Maples to pay homage to my parents and this land on which I grew.  In that writing, I lament the loss of one maple and the decline in the other’s vitality.  My father, upon reading it, knew Maples was about him.  In his weak breathy voice, he pointed to himself and told his Hospice nurse, “I’m the maple.”  Several months later I was faced with the task of having the maple taken down.  Its presence in the yard was no longer comforting but a constant source of anxiety.  It was not the tree of my youth nor the tree of even the season before.  On a good day, the falling branches merely littered the yard but on a bad day, they hit the house and broke the bench that had been lovingly placed beneath it all those years ago.  So on one beautiful April morning, two men came with chainsaws and ropes in hand to take down the tree I loved as deeply as any family member.  By the end of the day, the maple that once dwarfed my house was now in pieces covering the entirety of the yard and we were faced with the task of removing it.  That was a sad emotional day for me as my eyes tried to adjust to the changing landscape (just as they did years earlier when the first maple fell).

Little by little our party of four got to work reclaiming our yard.  First, the branches were dragged and piled for future chipping.  Then the smaller logs were stacked near the house for future splitting.  Any rotted ones were placed in the woods for further decomposition.  Finally, we were left with the larger pieces of the trunk that the goats happily climbed and frolicked upon.  Some of these massive sections showed heartwood that was rotted through and through.  Their removal would require far more than my husband’s brute force and sheer will.  Once all the sorting and piling were completed it was time to call in reinforcements in the form of a skid steer and wood chipper.  The skid steer carried the giant pieces as if they were feathers to the manure pile in the horse pasture.  There they will be left to entertain the goats, feed the decomposers, and over time their powdery remains will feed the earth.  The branches were fed into an industrial chipper and transformed into an enormous mound of mulch (to be dealt with at a later date).  And so it was a gigantic maple tree that took many decades to grow and years to die was felled and removed in a matter of days.  The only proof of its significance is a scar on the yard and piles of firewood and mulch.

Of course, I cannot write about the maple tree, the tree of tolerance and a symbol of strength and endurance, without thinking of the man who inspired my first wondering last year.  Just as the remains of the tree are now heating my house and covering my gardens, so much of his memory warms and blankets the uneasy parts of my heart and soul.  He may no longer be here to offer advice or impart wisdom but I have a wellspring of knowledge that I can draw upon daily.  This is what I cling to more than anything.  I know that as long as I remember his simplest lessons that he will never truly be gone from me. 

It has been exactly 11 months since I last heard my father’s voice.  His last words to me were, “I can’t take care of myself” as I helped him to sit up while he labored to catch his breath.  On that day I got to be his strength as I fought back the tears I so desperately wanted to shed.  The following day my sister and I were faced with the task of planning his funeral and having his medical equipment removed.  How life changes in a matter of hours!  That was just the beginning of all the planning and executing that would become the focus of my life for months to come.  After getting a brief break following Dad’s funeral to enjoy as much as I could of the Holidays, I got to work with the arrival of the new year carrying out his final wishes.   Now that I think about it settling Dad’s estate was much like the removal of the maple tree.  I alone could not manage the task and needed all the help I could get.  So it is here that I make sure I thank the lawyer and his secretaries, the realtor, and my various family members that helped sort the detritus and memories of a lifetime of a man who loved his family, repaired anything and saved everything. 

My siblings and I have been blessed with so much thanks to the man who raised us.  We all have different memories and experiences because of his presence in our lives, but I am the luckiest of them all.  I spent so much time with Dad during his golden years that I have had some truly memorable encounters.  It is one such seemingly small and insignificant event that has followed me and even inspired the wondering that led to this writing.  It was a few years ago; a day before Dad became sick and was still easily driving here every Saturday to spend the weekend.  He arrived with a piece of paper in hand.  It was a torn-out page from his latest AARP magazine with a list of age-appropriate chores for children.  At the time Hannah was too young to do more than help picks up toys from the living room and sticks for kindling, but Logan was at an age where more responsibility might do him some good.  Dad handed Logan the page and as he read the list for his age of 10 his eyes lit up.  Trust me that boy is never excited to help out but when he read “split firewood” he was ready to grab an ax.  Seriously!  What old-timey man wrote this list? No helicopter mom of today would willingly give her 10-year-old an ax.  I am not that said mother.  So under our guidance, Logan got to use the ax. He split one small log after another and we marveled at the strength he possessed in his noodle arms.  Logan was proud and couldn’t wait to tell his father of his new skill.

As Logan got bigger he became more and more involved in the preparation of firewood.  He graduated from tasks of splitting small logs and collecting kindling to running the log splitter and stacking piles.  He’d work side by side with us as we turned felled trees into our home heating fuel.  This year Logan turned 14.  He is no longer a child with his height, huge feet, and deep voice.  He wants things other teenagers have – a gaming system, games to play with friends, and a cell phone.  I want him to appreciate all that he already has and to realize such items come at a price.  I don’t see the benefit of video games but to a techy teen, they are important.  But I do see the benefit of his social interactions with friends who do not live within walking distance.  So we agreed that Logan could get his PlayStation 4 and the games his friends have but first he had to make and move some mountains.

One lesson I learned from Dad was the benefit of hard work.  He always felt that you appreciated something more if you had to work for it.  I learned that when I had to train my first horse. That is a story I will have to share another day.  When Logan asked for his new tech he was given a task to complete before the trip to BestBuy was made.  He had to split and stack the firewood from the maple tree.  He complained and reasoned that “other parents just buy kids what they want” but I made it clear that his parents aren’t like other parents.  Logan got to work.  He worked the log splitter all weekend long with his dad.  Then single-handedly he had to stack every last piece of firewood.  He’d come home from school and get to work. Sometimes for hours at a time.  He knew that under no circumstance was he getting the PlayStation until the task was completed.  When he finally finished we asked him to retrieve a forgotten bag from the car.  He dragged his feet the whole way to the car.  I’m sure he was annoyed with us for not offering to whisk him away to the mall.  He popped the trunk to see that the forgotten bag was from BestBuy.  Needless to say, his step had a bit more pep on his way back to the house.

A few weeks later Logan asked for a soon-to-be-released game that all his friends were getting.  “But Mom it’s only $80” are words I hate to hear.  Since when is $80 an insignificant amount? My dad used to regale me with stories of what 50 cents could buy.  Although $80 may not be a lot of money by today’s standards it is still a lot to spend on something as unnecessary as a video game.  But to my socially awkward teen, it is something that puts him on a level with his peers.  He was given another task – he had to move the mountain of mulch that was still left.  He moaned.  He reasoned.  He acted defeated before even starting.  But he was given a choice - move the mulch to the flower beds and gardens and get the game or don’t do it and don’t get the game.  After all, I already planned to do the work myself.  Not particularly happy with either choice he chose the one that would ultimately get him what he wanted.  Every day after school armed with a shovel and wheelbarrow he started moving the mountain of mulch.  It took a week for only a patch of bare dirt to remain in that spot and for Logan to get his game.  Thanks, Dad for that AARP article all those years ago.

I’m getting used to the bare landscape in front of my house and maybe even appreciating the openness of my yard.  I’m even planning on planting a cottage garden now that the conditions are right for growing flowers.  I’m appreciating the toasty warm living room thanks to the maple logs burning in the wood stove.  But mostly I welcome the changes because without the challenges and hardships there wouldn’t be growth and growth is good.  In fact, for the first time, I noticed that the dying ash tree lot behind my house is being replaced by maples and soon vitality will endure once more. During my 43 years with my father, I learned so much and now I’m (hopefully) passing on those lessons to my children.  Maples, trees of tolerance, symbols of strength and endurance will forever be my favorite trees for they evoke so many pleasant memories, hard-learned lessons, and hope for the future.  When Dad told his nurse that he was the maple he had never spoken truer words.